we have connectivity. repeat. we have connectivity.

Anything you still can't articulate is therefore your own problem.

At last I can post. Coming to you live from the Left Luggage Office of Pakington Street Station, first stop on the Victoria Underground.

I think I managed to be useful for the few days I was staying with my mum. I helped her through a bit of slapstick comedy called

Going to the Doctor's Office

She needed a travel form to go across to Vancouver to see the specialist. One of those pink forms they give you to reimburse your ferry fare. So she called in and gave them all her information, and then we drove down to get it.

My job was to run in and pick up the form, since her mobility is so limited. The running in part was easy. The getting, not so much.

She said "Tell them you're here to pick up a form for Mrs. A. Mother, and that she called it in. I told them you'd be picking it up."

I jogged up to the counter. "I'm here to pick up a travel form for Mrs. A. Mother." I said. "She phoned it in."
"Is it filled in?" asked the nurse.
Well. Stumped in one. Was it filled in? I didn't know. I'd never seen it. I'd only even heard of its existence second hand.
"She phoned it in." I tried, hoping that would lead her towards some conclusion based on the information she had and I lacked.
"But is it filled out?" She blocked me expertly.
I searched my mind. "I don't know." I said. I tried to work up a theory. Maybe she meant had it already been used and was it just with the doctor for some final approval. "I guess... it's not." I said.
"That's what I wanted to know." She started filling one out. "Name of referring doctor?"
"Dr. First." I said confidently.
"Yes, but he's away. Who's the referring physician?"
So I ran back out to the car.
"I told them all that over the phone." said my mother.
"Dr. Second." I reported to the nurse.
"And the referral is to?"
"...Dr. First?" I said desperately. She was having none of that. I ran back to the car again and my increasingly bemused mother.
"Dr. Third." I reported, or would have if the nurse hadn't gone off to talk to a patient. I waited. Patiently. She returned.
"Dr. Third." I finally communicated.
"What's his physician number?"
I stared at her.
Then, and only then, a second nurse, who had been hovering in the background with a half-smile all this time, walked over and flicked a bit of pink paper taped up just out of my sight. "Here's your form, taped to the counter." she said.

( Other Useful Things )

Pakington Street Station is barely out of its boxes yet, and still a mess, which makes any luggage clerk growly.

{rf}