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Thursday 6 October 2011

you're old enough to be my dad

I was at a Sleep Clinic the other day, buying a new CPAP machine. Have you seen anyone wearing the CPAP mask? Mmmm, sexxy time... think "rebreathing equipment".

So I'm sitting in the waiting area (along with several other morbidly obese heffalumps & the oddly mortified skinny people wearing that I-genuinely-have-a-medical-condition-called-sleep-apnoea-that-I-did-NOT-bring-upon-myself look) and this old guy starts chatting me up. Even though I'm reading a book, because *obviously* people only read if they have no one to talk to. I'm being polite because I think he's nervous or chatty or impaired in some way... until he puts his hand on my knee.

Um. Are you SERIOUS? You're my DAD's age, you are NOT George Clooney, and ... oh, thank God, I hear my name! So sorry, gotta run.

He's still there when I head to reception to settle up. He sidles up, and hands me a piece of paper. Written on it is a phone number, a landline, & instructions to "ask for Sandy, the nurses know who I am". Oh. Good. He waves hopefully at me as I leave, and I throw away the paper as soon as I'm out of sight.


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