I used to know this fella in London – let’s call him Dixon, though his real name was a lot stranger and funnier – who would go and visit folk he didn’t know in hospital. He’d just turn up at one, say Whipp’s Cross, at visiting time, approach a bed, clock the patients name on the chart and start chatting as if he were a relative or a close friend.
“How you feeling then George. Bit better?”
George in the bed would be nonplussed. Too embarrassed to come
right out and say who the fuck are you and also worried that perhaps he should
know this apparent stranger would be struck dumb…
“…erm..?”
“Was talking to Betty just outside and she said you’d had a bit
of a restless night.”
“Betty….?”
This would go on for some minutes until the patient, by this
time utterly confused and exasperated, would finally blurt…
“Sorry, pal, but are you sure you’re at the right bed?”
Dixon would act like he was stopped in his tracks and then bend
in and peer closely at the bed-bound man’s face.
“You are George Bowles, aren’t you?”
“No, I’m not!”
He’d peer again at the man’s face and do a sort of comedy double-take then exclaim…
“Christ! I’m sorry my friend. I thought you were my brother, George.”
And with this he’d get up and leave only to repeat the same
routine somewhere else.
Strange bloke. Was always buying musical instruments he couldn't play!
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