The Cat

This was the view from the third floor patient reception area at the Whittington Hospital, where Dave went for his hernia surgery yesterday. It's interesting only because of the sculpture of Dick Whittington's famous cat, perched on the roof at left. Whittington was a real person, a medieval mayor of London, but somehow all this folklore sprung up about a cat that helped him become famous and successful. Now the cat is a celebrity in its own right, even though there's scant evidence that it actually existed.

Whittington is not "our" hospital -- we usually go to the Royal Free in Hampstead. Whittington is farther away and on the other side of Hampstead Heath -- which has few roads through it, so it's a bit awkward to get there -- but that's where the NHS sent us. Dave's appointment was at 7 a.m., so we were up at 5 a.m. and in a car at 6 a.m., which put us there in plenty of time. In fact there was virtually no one around and the reception desks were all shuttered.

When Dave finally checked in, the hospital staff seemed bewildered at his early arrival. One of them said something about his surgery being scheduled for 11 a.m.! But they took him back and I wasn't permitted to follow, so I walked home -- a good long walk around the north side of the Heath.

The road there is lined with campers, or caravans, some of them quite interesting. Many appear permanently parked. This one doesn't look like it ever goes anywhere.

Dave finally texted me about noon that he was going into surgery, which was supposed to be an hour-long procedure. After an hour I began walking back to the hospital, crossing the Heath this time. I figured by the time I got there he'd be close to being released, but no -- they said they'd be keeping him another four hours because he'd had general anesthesia.

So I went for lunch at this colorful little cafe not far from the hospital. I love their wavy mosaic tile doorstep. It's very Rio. I had a glass of rosé and a "California burrito," which was basically a rice & bean burrito with cheese. I sat and read my current book, "Picture," a contemporaneous account by New Yorker writer Lillian Ross of the making of John Huston's film "The Red Badge of Courage" back in 1950. It's a fascinating account of the mechanics of old-fashioned moviemaking.

Then I went back and sat in hospital reception, and waited, and read more, and waited more. I even dozed off for a bit. Dave ultimately wasn't released until about 5:30 p.m. We took a taxi home. He says it hurts to cough and sneeze, and he's moving a bit gingerly, but he has painkillers and seems to be doing OK. He was able to sleep and he's staying home from work for the next two weeks to recuperate.

Meanwhile, I got a full night's sleep last night! Woo hoo! The jet-lag from our California trip has been terrible, both on the way there and on the way home. I was getting desperate for more than three hours of sleep, and finally last night I slept seven.