So today I set off on an adventure.
Okay, it wasn't exactly an Adventure with a capital “A”, as in climbing Mount
Everest or journeying to the centre of the earth. It did, however, involve a journey and one which I had never undertaken before. In my book, that constitutes an adventure because I had no idea, when I set off from home, exactly what might befall me Along
Mr B was not pleased with me. He advocated taking a taxi to and from my destination. My argument against this doubtless highly sensible suggestion was
(i) that the return journey would cost me the best part of £60; and (ii) it would not be an adventure. Mr B, miffed, retorted that since I took over the management of our finances, I have become a Regular Skinflint. I took this as a compliment; as regular
readers know, I always reckon it is the best course of action to take comments such as this as complimentary. That way lies happiness.
Oh, yes, my journey of adventure.
I had an appointment at the hospital for my post operation check-up. As I am still unable to drive, I checked out public transport to and from the hospital, deciding on a short train trip, followed by a journey on the number 2 bus from Shoreham railway station
to the hospital. What fun!
On the station platform a young man in a hoodie was sharing his sandwich with a large and greedy sea-gull. Now this is generally behaviour
to be frowned upon, because sea-gulls, don't you know, really don't need any encouragement to behave badly in Food Related Situations. My eldest granddaughter still shivers at the memory of the enormous gull which flew off with her chips, plastic fork still
attached, one day on Brighton beach. My hooded fellow passenger, however, kept up a running conversation with the sea-gull, for all the world as if they were old friends. Perhaps they were…
The train was on time, despite the threat of industrial action. Fortune favours the brave, I told myself. The rail fare cost me £2.95 with my Senior Railcard which was, let's face it, a bargain. I make a note to relay
this information to Mr B, despite knowing he will only consider it further evidence, if evidence were needed, of my Scrooge-like Tendencies. In precisely 11 minutes I was clambering out of the train and heading out of the station in search of a bus stop.
I hadn't gone too far along the road when I thought to check with a local passer-by and found I was walking in completely the wrong direction. Even intrepid adventurers should be humble enough to ask the way if not entirely confident in their innate sense
Only nine minutes to wait for the Number 2 bus and here it comes! The driver has to explain to me where to register my bus pass - it's all very different
from my local Pulse bus. And then, hey, what excitement! I am travelling on a Hybrid Bus which may, at any minute, go into electric mode. We passengers are not to alarm ourselves, a helpful notice informs us, the Number 2 bus is simply doing its best to Save
The Planet. Or words to that effect, I may have made that bit up.
The bus stops right outside the hospital and I have time to spare for a crafty coffee in the
Café. The Middle of the Darling Daughters phones me on my mobile to tell me about Pirate Week at the Rascal’s nursery. Having decorated his cheek with a fearsome scar, she then found the Twinkles had unilaterally decided that they needed scars
painted on their cheeks too. Apparently they attracted some extremely strange looks in Tesco's…
It's a very long wait to see my surgeon. Waiting along with
me is a chatty woman who tells me that only two of her eight grandchildren and ten great grandchildren bother to contact her. I feel sad for her and count myself so very fortunate. Also in the waiting room is The Elderly Gentleman who, regular readers may
recall, was my fellow patient on Operation Day. We congratulate each other on Doing Well.
I travel back to the station on a bus called Henry Solomon. I love the
fact that Brighton buses carry the names of Notable Locals. Henry was the first Chief Constable of Brighton and was murdered in 1844 by a prisoner he was interviewing in his own police station - his ghost is said to haunt the building to this day. I'm
so busy googling his story that I fail to realise that Henry isn't calling at the railway station; I will need to catch a Number 19 from the town centre, the bus driver tells me.
I finally reach home. Mr B says it would have been much easier had I travelled there and back by taxi.
But, let's face it, not half so