At the hospital
Last Thursday, I went to the funeral of my godfather, Roy Hutchinson, so I think it's worthwhile to relate the last time I saw him, a little over month ago. He was at Guys Hospital, taken there away from his home in Brighton to a specialist unit, but was emaciated and had two weeks just left to live, though we didn't know it at the time. He had colon cancer and that had spread to his liver, making it terminal, but for two years doctors had faffed around with him, until they correctly diagnosed and then it was too late.
That Wednesday I went to a job interview in the morning. It was for media sales and held near a big Jewish synagogue. The temple had something wrong with its guttering or water pump system, since it was closed, with water streaming down its humongous front door. In the office where the interview was held it was clear it was going to be another group interview. In addition to filling out our personal details we were given calculators which soon became clear when they gave us a mathematics question sheet to fill out, in 15 minutes. I felt I did rather well until the last two questions of the twenty or so, when it asked me to express 85 as index of something like 65 and another question asking that same expression of an index. At that point, I decided to risk exposing my ignorance and asked the other three there how to express one number as an index of another. It brought a release to the cordial formality that had previously existed.
Everyone relaxed and the atmosphere became more collegial. Not only did no-one there know how to express indexes, but struggled with most of it. They guy next to me was called Zayga Aleaxander (yes, that is the correct way around), whose first name I've been informed may have been inspired after a pop song. He was around 19 and said he actually enjoyed this little maths exam, though he seemed to answered fewer questions than me. The other two women were called Emma Crockfield and girl called Carol, whose last name I forget. Both had telescopic legs, Emma having the slight edge with bounteous brown hair framing an expressive face, though Carol was might fine herself. Emma said her English uni degree didn't prepare her for this, while Carol admitted she was all at sea when it came to maths.
It was Zayga though, who was true original, though not necessarily in a good way. He was prone to making comments regarding him that to any normal person could be seen to be quite damaging. He was working for his dad at the moment, but wanted to leave partly because his dad wanted him to do, partly because his dad's personality made it imperative. Zayga's father was a millionaire who designed fashion clothes and fitted them out on small dolls (presumably to take to boardrooms to show executives). Zayga's dad sounded quite domineering. So Zayga said he wanted a job, but only until he started university in the autumn (which made it illogical applying for this job, since it was a permanent post); he crassly told the interviewers exactly the same thing. He also said he wanted to marry a Japanese woman, but not a Japanese woman in this country because they were ugly and boring; he would go to Japan and find someone there and she would be his housebound wife. He had dreamed of this since he was seven and read up on it. We gently mocked him for his outrageous, bombastic views, but he quite sincerely defended them, agreeing with my suggestion that a Japnese woman was his ideal, like a Prince Charming. He was quite a bizarre fellow, but indeed for that reason was the centre of attention, though by his demeanour I think that was unwitting on his part. Most of this chat occurred after our papers had been taken away. After the interview, Zayga and I (the boys in other words), were taken out first and told we weren't getting the jobs. That was fine. I wasn't interested in media sales anyway, but I covered it up a whole lot better than Zayga, who when asked why was he interested in media sales responded "I need a job," as bluntly as that.
So, I left and went off to Guy's Hospital. It was lunchtime when I got there, so I decided to wait and eat my lunch, instead of interrupting Roy who might be having his. I stopped off in one of the atriums where a mini-concert was being performed. It was a man on a violin, a woman on piano and a boy turning the pages of the sheetmusic on the piano. It was swooping, graceful music, at times infused with a hint of melancholy, but uplifting with the passion and the virtuosity by which it was being played. People sat on benches listening to it, pleasure evident from everyone. It was was wonderfully cultural, something that should be encouraged to occur more often.
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