So, the weekend revolved around returning NoD to Uni. NoD = Number One Daughter (we have one of each - it's a lame, family joke). It's her last of four years, to be then followed by two years of clinical placement, then the seventh year for her PhD. Seven years of financial support and Red Cross parcels. Start saving now folks! Meanwhile, practice by attaching leeches to your limbs and wallet. Don't mean it, NoD!
Hopefully she will then start to earn obscene amounts of money and/or marry a research scientist with a Lottery grant. Either of them can then buy the boat I have been lusting after for far too long. "See that boat disappearing over the horizon, Daddy" she says, "Wave it goodbye 'cos you're never going to see it again!"
She explains that the job will involve her making decisions about the treatment to be meted out and someone else sticking in the needle. Now a very close relative was sectioned a couple of years back (and a huge thanks to the NHS for returning him safely to our planet) so I know a little about what happens.
I therefore have this vision of her, white-coated and like a visiting dignitary being asked to review the parade, following behind a nurse who, like an old-fashioned cinema usherette, has a large tray of goodies strapped to her.
"She gets two of the small green ones" she'll dictate. "He needs a large blue one". Etc.
And the customers, like ravenous fledglings or parishioners at Holy Communion, will open wide and take the medicine (and hopefully make it back home).
NoS (you know how to work it out by now) is currently touring Europe with a skateboard and an H-plated Toyota, so it's damn quiet at Aprosexic Towers.
Anyone have a cure for Empty Nest Syndrome?
# posted by Mr.D. @ 3:56 PM
Drinking and Driving (but clearly not simultaneously)
