Monday, 7 November 2011

Terminal flatulence and re-cycled Fosters

I checked into the Gleneagles hospital at 6:30am on Saturday, and was taken to a room with 4 beds. I couldn't see any of the other patients due to the swishy curtains, but was building up a mental picture from their hushed conversations and the sounds of sickness.

A middle-aged Singaporean guy (I think) with teenage kids opposite me had the loudest, longest, most frequent flatulence I have ever heard. At first, I giggled. It soon became tiring. Eventually I pitied him.

An old okka Australian fella in the far corner was too proud to call the nurses for help following a stroke. All he had to do was press a red button and they would come to his aid. He didn't want to impose. He kept pissing the bed and knocking over his stockpile of re-cycled Fosters. I had to call the nurses, discretely on his behalf, to mop up the puddles.

The other person? Absolutely no idea. Visitors came and went, but I couldn't deduce a thing.


  1. I can't believe you would complain about another man's flatulence. Having spent 3 weeks in the USA and another in Istanbul I would describe sharing a room with you as akin to being locked in a stinky wind tunnel. I swear that it was so bad you made my eyes water at times.
    Anyway keep your pecker up, and I'm thinking of you (in a manly way). Looking forward to a photo of you with no hair (I'm imagining you look like a bleached baked bean) and excellent news re the reduced count. Matt.

  2. Hey Rick! Remember when we farted on Nat's cat??