Today we (J Boy and me) had an extended bounce and physio session in the hope of getting a decent sputum sample for clinic on Wednesday. J happy to bounce while I made animal noises, but declared the gunk had gone. So we did a cough swab (all of this teddies having to follow suit with their individual cotton bud cough samples). Then, in the midst of brushing his teeth, Jensen finally had a surge of gooey green phlegm (exorcist style). But unfortunately it was all mixed in with Colgate. In the end, he managed a small amount into his septic pot, with much glee.
Sorry if this all sounds gross, but life here does, at times, resemble an audition for the cinematic version of Fungus the Bogeyman. I don’t think there is much hope of Colgate signing us up for an ad. But the sudden and unexpected grossness does (sometimes) explain why we are nearly always last getting to school.
Following my dash to hospital, I had a Fluffy moment (although at the time I mistook it for a flash of inspiration). A couple of spare hours to kill, I thought I would drop into the public gallery at the local magistrates/county court. Big mistake.
I had dim and distant and vaguely fond memories of making applications for liquor licences in Suffolk, and even dimmer memories of erudite and arcane discussions with my old Principal in the Buttery at the Courts of Justice. More recently, I had stumbled across the MOJ’s Court Services’s “Charter.”
Yes, courts still are public buildings. And the website makes High Wycombe Court sound as cosy as a National Trust tea room (it offers baby-change facilities, refreshments and translation facilites). Unfortunately, nobody has told the Front-of-House. Having negotaited my way around all the “Strictly No Entrance” signs plastered to every door (in vain searching for some more helpful directions) I found Security. Or rather Security found me. No nice customer inter-face. Apparently, the public are not admitted to Court.
If I’d been in a suit I may have argued. But I left, quietly and feeling guilty. I thought I recognised the “muscle” who had turned me away. In Easton Street, I remembered. He wasn’t an extra from Lord of the Rings, just a security guard in Marks and Spencer. He used to stand by the magazines and give you THE STARE if you spent too long browsing.
Further along Easton Street, a young girl in a shalwar kameez stopped me. She was clasping a piece of paper in her hand, wringing it. Did I know the way to the Court? I showed her where the entrance was. I’d like to think I was being helpful, but I’m not so sure.