On Monday I attended St James’ Hospital in Leeds, for a pre-assessment for my upcoming surgery. You may recall that after fannying about with various procedures the local medical fraternity have still completely failed to get any kind of lymph node sample and so they are now going to do what they should have done in the first place, which is cut me open, dive in and get some. This can only happen at Leeds, as they don’t do chest cutting in Bradford (for some unknown reason).

So, I duly arrived at St James. Well, I say I arrived. The day had started badly. I had downloaded a new alarm clock app which I had tested and then set to get me up in due time, booked a taxi to the station and knew the train times for Leeds. I had decided not to drive for various reasons, mainly not knowing the way or the state of the parking when I got there. The day promised to be a big arse stress without the additional headache of cocking about with the car. Unfortunately, overnight the alarm had decided that randomly flashing my screen on and off without making any noise would be a good way to get me out of bed, so by the time I woke up in a general state of panic, the booked taxi had long since given up and gone – and my train would be pulling out of the station. So, given limited time, I dragged myself out of bed and called a taxi, paying the price for my lack of decent alarm clock as he drove me all the way to Leeds.

 On the way, I deleted the new alarm clock app.

 Now, St James is big, really big, so I was glad that there were signs enabling my driver and I to navigate across the campus to the correct wing where I was dropped off. Inside it was all new and modern and terribly smart and I was easily able to get directions to where I needed to wait. A fun little note was on the wall talking about hygiene. It explained that all the nurses would be wearing short sleeves and the doctors would be similarly dressed, or with rolled up sleeves and no ties or jackets, this wasn’t because they were scruffy, it said, but rather to avoid the spread of infection. I wandered to the reception desk and asked for directions, being pointed to another reception desk further in the building who would direct me to to see the surgeon (or a member of his team).

I suppose I should have realised by the presence of a dog-collared hospital chaplain leaning on the second reception desk that things were about to go wrong. Clearly he was there to provide moral and spiritual support for the poor patients condemned to this part of the hospital. This is the point where things started to go seriously bad. The building was new, the paintwork was in a very modern shade of institution green, but there was something vitally important missing.

Mobile coverage.

I was in a black spot. Forget data, I couldn’t even send a text. I was cut off from civilisation and thrust back into the dark ages. At any moment vikings would be attacking, pillaging my valuables (not my phone, obviously, what with the lack of connection) and kidnapping the nurses. To add to my pain, there wasn’t even a TV. Or rather, there was, but all it did was show a slide show of advertisements. I suppose the posters of clichéd and twee poetry around the walls was supposed to somehow calm my disposition, but it was a nightmare. The walls began to close in as the net withdrawal began to set in fully. I needed a cup of tea and quickly, looking around desperately for some kind of kettle or vending machine.

There was none. A jug of water, the style one normally sees next to each bed in a ward was on a tray, with a little sign offering that patients should help themselves. If only there had been cups, some trauma might have been avoided, but no, even this was denied me. My mood, already dark on account of having to rush out of the house with no caffeine began to blacken further.

It is perhaps, for the best that I didn’t have too long to wait before the registrar (a scruffy chap in rolled up sleeves with no tie) called me into his office to discuss the upcoming procedure. He was also able to show me the CT scan from last August and point out the different bits and pieces. Here are lungs, here is the heart, and here is the…

…and it was at this point that I actually shut the fuck up. That lymph node is properly massive…

…It’s down in the middle between my lungs being all much bigger than it should be and stuff. I am very much torn, I have to say. Whilst I find these images of my insides generally fascinating from a scientific and anatomical viewpoint I really don’t know if I really wanted to know how big that lymph node actually is. The term ‘enlarged’ that they have been using does not do it justice, although I suppose ‘ginormous’ is not a term in general use by the medical profession. It’s pretty bloody big. I am pleased to state that on my paperwork, I could see “fast-track” stickers all over it. Knowing now how big it is, I’ll be very pleased to move as quickly as possible.

The operation then, which is to be performed under a general anaesthetic will involve keyhole surgery to send a camera down to locate the node internally, followed up by taking a good size sample suitable for testing. I signed the consent form (receiving the pink copy for my own records) and he wandered off to speak to the surgeon about fitting me in. This took some time, as the surgeon was also seeing patients. This wasted time, as I sat in the registrar’s office staring at a lymph node the size of a small astronomical body would be the cause of further difficulties, as I shall shortly relate. Eventually and, in fairness, apologetically, the registrar returned to inform me that he would get me in for a procedure on the 9th. I need to arrive on the 8th and will probably be released on the 10th. In the meantime, they’d very much like to get a fresh CT scan.

So, the next stage in processing involves a small hike. One is provided with an envelope stuffed with paperwork. I notice they had sealed it tightly, and scrawled on the seals so it would be more obvious if I opened it and read it all. I actually feel a bit aggrieved by this, it’s my notes, why shouldn’t I read them on the way? In any event, there were 15 lines of directions to get me from this department to the surgery pre-assessment department, which I gather is where ALL the pre-assessments are done.

After some muddling along with what turned out to be “almost correct but just wrong/inexact enough to create difficulties” directions I found myself at the windowed reception for preassessment. The delay at the registrar meant I had arrived just in time for them to shut for lunch and could I come back around 2pm? I looked at the time, around 12:15. I’m in Leeds, with nothing to do for the next 2 hours and I can’t even go to the boozer as beer will affect the pile of tests I’m about to endure. I express at some length to the receptionist my disatisfaction with this state of affairs. She puts on her best “you have my sympathies, but there’s fuck all I can do about it” face and gives me some directions which will lead to a Costa Coffee, nearby in the hospital. Thus resigned to being at Jimmy’s all bastard day I trudge down the stairs and along the corridors and arrive, not at the Costa Coffee. No mere coffee shop this, instead, these directions have led me, inexorably towards the…

**** St James’ Hospital Retail Therapy Experience ****

It is, perhaps, ironic that given all the recent articles about the potential health risks of infection from fish pedicures[1], that there is, within the actual hospital building itself, a beauty salon offering just exactly that service. There are shops, there is a hairdressers. There are restaurants and pie shops and yes, way over in the back there is a Costa Coffee. I stand, seriously in utter bewilderment watching people scurrying about, eating, buying, having their feet eaten. It is at this point that my phone rings. Oh bliss, delicious, wonderful connectivity, how I love thee. I stagger outside, retail confusion warring with restored connection, blinking in the sunlight to take a call from the office.

By the time I’m done, my mental state has been restored somewhat and it being lunchtime, and there being numerous food outlets, I go back inside and avail myself of the pie shop for a couple of pasties and a coffee, whilst considering my next move, there being much time remaining before I could get assessed. I guess I was lucky, as it was a wonderful sunny and warm autumn day and so I was able to sit outside and read my book. Well, I say book, obviously I mean my emergency e-book on my phone. I should state that I’ve given up reading Jules Verne for reasons I’ve given at much length in the past and am instead reading Harry Harrison’s Stainless Steel Rat series, which are much more fun, amusing and easy to read, which is sort of what one needs when being stressed at a hospital.

Around 1:30pm I decide to chance my arm and hope they are back early, wandering upstairs to pre-assessment. As it turns out I’m in luck and they are recommencing the processing of patients. A nurse “as soon as possible” is promised.

Pre assessment appears to be in a much older part of the hospital, in soothing instution blue. It has two very important things which were lacking elsewhere. A television which displays television programmes (BBC News channel on this occasion, very grown up!) and mobile coverage. I have to say however, I didn’t get much chance to enjoy either, as they are pretty bloody efficient in there as you are processed, conveyor belt style from one nurse to the next. A nurse for MRSA tests, another for the questionnaire. Amusingly enough I had the campest nurse in West Yorkshire performing my ECG which overall made the performance of failing to get any of the sticky pads to stick quite entertaining as he fought in excellently camp and flambouyant style to get the pads situated, electrodes attached and the infernal ECG machine to accept it had the correct connections to take the readings – stereotype and proud of it, I found this particular nurse’s efforts to be one of the highlights of an otherwise dull day. Finally the ward sister took all the blood tests and I was told I could go home.

Which I did, essentially uneventfully.

I am now awaiting an appointment for this next CT, which will likely be at Leeds again, as the Leeds doctors can’t order up scans in Bradford, but he said he would write to BRI and try to get the referring doctor there to order me up one closer to home. They will need to get on with it, mind, as there are now only 8 working days until I’m due to be hacked into.[2]

My next known appointment will be on the 7th when I am due to see my haematologist, who will hopefully be able to do something more about this shoulder pain we are also looking at, following on from the earlier venogram.

Now – I want to say something in all seriousness. Codeine is horrible. I have spent the past two-three weeks getting myself off this quite insidious drug, in a process of weaning down under my GP’s supervision. I had been taking the strong dose pills constantly for several months and realised I’d become completely dependant upon this drug, which many people don’t realise is actually an opiate. And so I went to my GP. Coming off codeine is horrible. I had physical and mental withdrawal symptoms, physically being sick and flu-like, mentally with anxiety and paranoia, by which I mean severe anxiety and severe paranoia. I say this, so that if anyone reading this ends up, like I currently am, with chronic pain, they will know to avoid an extended stay with the codeine. There are other options and I heartily recommend you discuss those with your GP. Codeine will seriously mess you up.  After a brief (and futile) flirtation with various NSAID type drugs, all as effective as tap water, I’m now taking Tramadol as and when I need it and I’ve been given a week’s worth of uber strength sleeping pills to get my head down and past the lingering anxiety issues as I am now utterly exhausted. Tramadol is another drug in the opiate family (though artificial, unlike codeine which is present in raw opium). It’s stronger than codeine, but at least for me (based on previous experience with a shattered elbow, inserted metalwork and extended rehabilitation) it’s not so addictive. So please all of you who read this, really take care with pain medication. Codeine pills are available over the counter in pharmacies, when they say don’t take for more than three days, they mean it. Go and see your GP, there may well be something outside the opium family which will work for you. Sadly, it appears, not for me, not this time.

I now have another new alarm app. It works. For those of you wondering why I’m not simply using the default alarm clock on my phone, the answer is simply that I can’t abide all the beepy buzzy alarm noises that it offers and need something a bit less like being smacked in the face with a brick, when being woken up.

[1] I had at this point intended to do some gag about the fish from the fish pedicure ending up in the restaurant, but that utter bastard Danny Baker did the whole whitebait thing on ‘Have I Got News For You’ over the weekend, which sort of spoiled it for me and indeed for my overseas readers, who do not get HIGNFY on their primitive television networks.
[2] In retrospect, I realise this is a pretty poor pun for an IT person to write, but as I didn’t notice it at first and it wasn’t deliberate, you can all suffer.

Today found me back in the Outpatients West department of Bradford Royal Infirmary, a place I am becoming rather overly familiar with. Plenty of space to sit, but today nobody was offering me a cup of tea. I feel aggrieved by this as the old dear sitting behind me was not only offered tea, but a choice of beverages and seemed to spend a good five minutes describing in painful detail how she wanted it. Perhaps my lack of tea is the fault of the elderly lady, as the tea nurse didn’t wish to risk the trauma of another complex tea order. Personally I think the way I drink tea is perfectly reasonable, however I am always reminded of a particular client I used to visit. Their company administrator was that lady of a certain age who has a amazing memory such that even if months should happen to pass, she would always remember how one liked one’s tea. “Orange tea” she used to call it, in reference to my desire for tea which is well brewed to a strong liquor and then served with lots of milk. Anyway, I didn’t get any tea, orange or otherwise, and would like to use this forum to publicly complain.

As on this visit the television sported both volume and subtitles, I would like also to publicly complain about the inconsistency in televisual entertainment offered on my various visits. Today there was some program in which three people with their historic family recipes go to some posh London restaurant and fail to cook them quickly enough or prettily enough during a lunch service, whilst some italian TV chef buzzes around telling them how rubbish they are. The idea was that they were bringing their beloved recipes out of the family and exposing them to the general public, with the winning recipe ending up on the restaurant menu for a month. In the case of Grandma’s fishcakes, or Grandma’s lasagne, I can see that and sympathise with the sentiment. The third contestant, however, was a butcher. This butcher was cooking his sausages, they being a ‘family recipe’ as he comes from a line of butchers. I can’t help but feel that firstly his sausages are already available to the public, as you could buy them at his butchers shop and also that if he won, that would be a good way to make a lot of money supplying a month’s worth of sausages to the restaurant. I’m afraid I have no idea who won, as I was summoned just before the results were announced, but I hope it was the lasagne.

Today I saw Doctor Adrian. I actually quite like Doctor Adrian. Whilst he is a bit scatty and rather mad, he’s quite fun to have a conversation with, as he slips in his vocabulary between completely unpronounceable works and then into dumbdown words. He’ll give the name of some random procedure you’ve never heard of and then rather than say “under a general anaesthetic” he will say “you’ll be asleep”. Also the poor bastard is clearly embarrassed that he has not the first clue about what on earth is wrong with me and for my own amusement I labour that point to make him squirm a bit more. I suppose it’s not very nice, but I want my money’s worth out of Mr. Bevan’s “National Health Service”.

I was hoping to receive some useful results following on from the torture of the endoscopic ultrasound procedure last week and Doctor Adrian was indeed able to bring me up to speed. Unfortunately it seems that despite having an ultrasound to allow them to see exactly where they were placing the needle, the sample contained some lining, some muscle and basically anything but some bits of lymph node. Or to put it in simple terms: the whole sorry affair was a complete waste of time and effort. The position is therefore unchanged. We just don’t know. Could be lymphoma, might not be. Whatever trhe result, no idea what we are going to do until we have more information and we really must get a diagnosis.

 *sigh*

 We are therefore going to move to plan B. Plan B involves not doing another endoscopic ultrasound because it’s already failed once. Instead we are going to do something utterly unpronounceable, but I recall does begin with ‘M’. This will involve sticking a tube in through the front of my chest and down behind the breastbone until we hit lymph node. At this point, with the surgeon able to see the bloody thing, he will then get a good sized sample (he better, or the lab will likely say ‘we refuse to give a firm answer without more lymph node to test’) which can be used to diagnose what exactly is making my lymph nodes get all big.

 Sarcoidosis is still on the cards, apparently, despite my recent blood test coming back normal.

 We also discussed briefly my shoulder issue, but not much to talk about there really, as I will be visiting the ultrasound people to look at my blood vessels this coming Wednesday.

 So, now I will look forward to hearing from the thorassic surgeon. This will be a procedure performed under a general anaesthetic and will take place in Leeds, as they don’t do chest cutting in Bradford. I return to the outpatients clinic in a month’s time by which this should all be done and the samples processed by the lab. When I come back I shall expect the team to supply tea (preferably orange), hopefully a nice biscuit and, if you please, the remote control for the TV.

 [0] Due to a footnote writer’s strike, there are no footnotes in this episode.

Edit: The thing beginning with ‘M’ is mediastinoscopy.

I’m sorry this note has been a while coming, however I felt I needed to spend a few days getting over the awfulness of it all before I could write anything that might be worth reading. So anyway, here follows a story of the spine chilling horror that was my hospital trip to the Endoscopic Ultrasound unit, last Tuesday (being 27th September).

First of all I had my letter, detailing for me all the things I was expected to pack and bring to the hospital. These included basic toiletries, towel, dressing gown and a change of nightwear. All this I presume just in case they had to keep me in overnight. This was a slight issue for me, as it is my custom to sleep in the buff[1]. I find nightclothes get caught up in places clothes shouldn’t get caught and are generally uncomfortable so to be avoided under all normal circumstances. No way was I going out to the shops to buy a pair of dodgy pyjamas for this event, so I figured they’d have to put up with the vague possibility of seeing me in a pair of boxers first thing in the morning. The letter assured me that although it was a mixed sex ward, there were cubicles separating men and women to avoid embarrassment.

The letter also told me that I would need supervision for 24 hours following the procedure as I would be a danger to myself. I was not to operate machinery (or even a kettle) so would need someone to look after me. I gave Andy a ring on this subject and would like to very much thank both him and Helen for looking after me and letting me stay over with them on the night in question. I feel that without their support, there may well have been some kind of terrible and bizarre tea-making accident which I am happy to have avoided.

So the night before I prepared. I did this in two ways:

1. I  packed a bag with all the relevant stuff. Also a couple of books.
2. Stayed up stupidly late playing games, by which I mean about 4am. This was part of my plan to be so tired at hospital the next day that I would do little more than doze the day away and it would all pass so much more quickly.

 In the morning, having dragged myself out of bed without anywhere near enough sleep I prepared for the day ahead. My letter had been very specific and stated that I should take only a light breakfast of tea and toast. Heeding this advice I commenced to prepare breakfast and after grilling of few slices of bread, muffins, some crumpets, bagels and a couple of scones, washed down with a gallon of tea[2] I felt suitably fortified to face the day. I’d ordered a taxi the previous night and it arrived on time (Smack Taxis FTW![3]) and took me to the hospital.

 I had been instructed to arrive for a 10am appointment and was in the ward 5 (which has no cubicles and is completely open) around 0945. This seemed to confuse the receptionist, who instead of being at the reception desk, was sitting in an armchair having breakfast. I waved my appointment letter at her and over a mouthful of cornflakes she mumbled something about going to the nurses station. I tried very hard indeed not to roll my eyes and proceeded onwards. When I reached the nurses station, as I’m sure you’ll have guessed, there were no nurses. There were two doctors, talking important doctor stuff, with notes in front of them and stethoscopes about their doctory necks. I think having a patient arrive caught them off guard and out of their comfort zone, as they looked shifty and sort of embarrassed, before one of them muttered something about finding a nurse and fled. The nurse soon arrived and pointed me at bed number 1. I would like to believe this is because I am important and a number one kind of guy, but the fact is that aside from the tumbleweed rolling down the aisle and some barely awake staff, the ward was basically empty. Nevertheless, I texted Andy that I had arrived and the ward I was in. I spent a little time rating the nurses in order of hottest to nottest[4], then settled back in the provided armchair for my snooze.

 There were a number of issues with my snooze. Firstly, the chair wasn’t really very comfortable. Secondly, was that the bed, which I had hoped I might lay upon whilst snoozing was little more than a trolley and I very much feared to lay upon it for fear of rolling over and crashing onto the floor. Thirdly, bed number one sits next to a sink, where nurses come to wash up and squirt alcohol based disinfectant stuff on their hands, so trying to get 40 undisturbed winks was really quite the challenge. Nevertheless, I can assure you all that I made a herculean effort and finally managed to slip away into the land of…

 “Are you tired Mr Morrell?” Said hot nurse #1.

 “Fuck off bitch and let me sleep!” Is what I wanted to say, but instead I grunted something vaguely affirmative as she started getting pointy things out of a little cart.

 A lot of fannying around now commenced with the desired result being a cannula into a vein in the back of my hand, so they could inject stuff into me later. This turned into quite a performance as she managed to get me spurting blood all over. On the plus side, that then gave her the bright idea of using the end (where a drip might be attached, I think) to draw all the blood she wanted for testing, instead of yet another needle. By the time she had finished, however, I was dripping blood and she had to remove all the sticky dressings which hold the cannula in place. A few tense seconds followed where we both prayed the damn thing didn’t come out, as the area was cleansed and a new set of stickies put in to hold it into position. Job done, they could now drug me up with relative ease. I sat back and resumed my master plan of dozing the day away.

 My reverie was again interrupted, this time by hot nurse #3 (I never got to spend any time with #2), who had all my paperwork to deal with. She wanted to know if I had any of the following conditions, heart problems, diabetes, blah blah…

 “Hypertension?”

“Yes.”

“Are you on medication?”

“Yes.”

 And continued. Was I on any drugs (other than for the hypertension). I told her yes and pulled out the half dozen boxes so she could write it all into a box not big enough for them. She then took my blood pressure and was surprised to find it remarkably normal.

 “I thought you had high blood pressure?”

 Now. The observant of you will have noted that I had already told her I was on medication. The thing about having high blood pressure, but taking medicine, is that the medicine works to make it be not high. This, to me, is immediately obvious and logical, so I was surprised by her surprise. Nevertheless, with paperwork completed a more senior nurse (hottie #3 was only a trainee, in fairness) checked it and had me sign the consent form. A little while later, I am asked to change into the inevitable operation gown. I really don’t know why, being as I’m swallowing a camera, but whatever makes them happy I spose.

 My snoozing was next interrupted for more blood. Apparently they needed more samples as the earlier ones had shown up some rare antibodies and they needed to take more for cross matching purposes, just in case something went badly wrong and they had to do some kind of emergency surgery. This was properly irritating, as the nurse (well not even a nurse, a health care assistant) was apparently unable to get blood out of the veins in my elbow. I have bloody good veins, I know. I know this because I’ve had so many blood tests just recently, and the trained phlebotomists are in with the needle and out with the blood before you can say ‘vaccule'[5]. She simply couldn’t get blood out and when she did, it was all clotted up and horrible. She twisted the needle this way and that, causing me much pain and failing, failing to get what she needed. Finally, she called a real qualified nurse to assist. Of course, the vein in that arm was now ruined (I still sported the bruising up until yesterday) and the vein in my hand had the cannula in, so it meant starting on the other arm. That of course is the one with the stupid circulation problems. In the end, the nurse slipped a needle into a vein in my hand and got the blood out, in a quicksmart manner, but I was feeling pretty abused by this point.

 To add to my discomfort, whilst all this mess with needles is going on, the porter arrives to whisk me away to my inevitable fate, but the bloods aren’t done, so I can’t go. I am now quite worried that they will cancel my procedure and I’ve wasted a day when I could have been elsewhere not being repeatedly stabbed. I voice these concerns but am told not to worry, it’ll happen. This is confirmed when ten minutes or so later, the porter returns having been instructed by a Dr Jowett[6] to “bring him down anyway”. Apparently she doesn’t wish to wait for 2 hours for the blood tests. I get onto the trolley and he wheels me off.

 It turns out that this procedure happens in a special room in the depths of the imaging dungeons. I’ve discussed the ultrasound suite in a previous posting and the endoscopic ultrasound (EUS) is in there, in an even darker room. It’s also (despite the protests of the nurses who are “don’t you think it’s hot in here?”) bloody cold. Perhaps if I was wearing a nurses uniform I would be warmer, but I’m in a gown and freezing. The nurses are quite jolly and try to engage me in conversation. One of them asks what I do for a living and I tell her I work with computers. She happily explains to me that she has no idea at all about computers, then goes on to ask me what it is I do with computers. I pause for a moment, preparing to explain the intricacies of outsourced IT, DNS management and SMTP email delivery, before remembering  that she has no idea about computers, so I am wondering what the point of any explanation might be. The conversation sort of goes downhill from there. This creates an awkward silence, as the doctor who had been so keen to get me into the EUS suite, now keeps us waiting for a good 20 minutes before putting in an appearance.

 The conversation goes even further downhill when they start messing with the inside of my mouth. First comes the throat spray. This is some kind of alcohol based thing they spray right into the back of your mouth. It’s utterly disgusting and tastes of low grade vodka with chemical banana flavouring. Apparently some people report that it tastes like whisky. I can only view that sentiment with pity and hope that those people get to taste real whisky at some point in their lives. In any event, the back of my throat is now completely numb.

 Now comes the terror and the horror. I’m on my side with oxygen up my nose to help me breathe and they are strapping some kind of gimp mask onto my face, to hold my teeth open so I can’t (I presume) bite through the camera/doctor’s fingers. Apparently they are sedating me, but I really don’t notice as the tube is inserted down my throat and the chocking and retching and gagging begins, with the panic mounting and mounting inside me. I struggle to maintain a sense of calm, wishing that the fucking sedation was in some way effective and hating each and every second jointly and severally. I know I try to write these notes in a light hearted manner, but seriously, I cannot find anything funny at all in my description of this procedure, which is one of the most grim experiences of my life. According to the literature, the ‘sedation’ may make you forget ever even having it. I assure you all I will never ever forget those terrible, nightmarish few minutes with a foot of tubing down inside me. The only saving grace is that they were, thankfully, able to get hold of a sample, using the fine needle aspiration.

 After it was over and done with and much shaken up, I was wheeled back upstairs to the ward, where I remained in the bed for an hour or so, again trying to get a bit of kip. Despite this alleged sedation, I felt it hard to nod off and watched the clock until they came to feed me a sandwich and a cup of tea. Shortly afterward I got up, called Andy to pick me up and got dressed before meeting him at the front door, to be whisked away from all this awfulness.

 I will be seeing Dr Adrian (not Alan, sorry) and/or Dr Lisa on Monday afternoon to (I presume) get some results.

 Meantime, this whole business has been shown to have nothing whatever to do with the pain in my shoulder which started this roller coaster. I am therefore scheduled to appear in the ultrasound suite (“Hi, it’s me again!”) Wednesday week for a doppler scan of the blood vessels in my arm. A venogram has also been requested, but I have no appointment for that as yet.

 [1] This may be too much information for some, but really I don’t care.

[2] The amount of tea and toasted bread products may have been exaggerated for comedic/dramatic effect.[7]

[3] Well, Royal & Great Horton actually, but there was that rumour some years ago about the heroin dealing …

[4] There were only really 3 entrants. The remainder were too fat, too ugly or too male.

[5] I realise many of you are less familiar with blood tests than me, so a vaccule is the little tube they use to keep the samples in.

[6] That’s another sticker for my Doctors of Bradford Hospitals, a new collection from Panini.

[7] And is dedicated to the talkie toaster. Yes, I would like some toast.