Ladies in waiting!

Quite a lot of today has been made up of waiting. To begin with, I was going over to my daughter's house to do some painting for her. So, to kill two birds with one stone, I hopped on a bus just before 10.00 and went to Uppermill, where I purchased one or two odds and ends at the market. That bit of the day dealt with, I calculated I could walk part of the bus route before the next bus came along to continue on my way to my daughter's house. At my chosen bus stop, sure there was insufficient time walk further, I then waited for twenty minutes for a bus which should have arrived within minutes. 

Eventually, painting tasks over for the time being, I headed homewards. No bus due for a while, so once again I walked part of the way along the bridle path. It was a lovely day for it. Just as well, for once again my bus decided to be about 15 or 20 minutes late. 

Later in the afternoon, I waited once more, this time at our crossroads, for my daughter and her partner to collect me. My daughter managed to break a bone in a fall at work last week and has been unable to drive. Her partner's car, which she was driving in the day of the incident, remained in the work carpark and today, finally, we were going in her car to collect the other car and have me drive my daughter's car home, since I am a named driver on her insurance. Such a convoluted lot of messing about. 

Why had we not done this sooner? Because the car which I am insured to drive was being repaired after my daughter's partner had managed to bump it. All this before the bone was broken, giving rise to my driving skills being needed! 

Having acquired the car, I took advantage of it to run my chess playing husband around, after which I dropped the car off at my daughter's. For some odd reason it needs to be there tomorrow morning instead of outside my house. Nobody was available to run me home so I hung around until it was time for one of the rare buses back to my house in the evening. Phew! What a palaver! 

After doing this and that, I turned on the television to watch the news and caught the tail end of a programme about the Portland Hospital. Now, this is a hospital I read about recently. It's a maternity hospital. A private maternity hospital. Victoria Beckham has given birth to at least one of her children there. The Duchess of Middleton had both her children there. It's a hospital that gives women in labour a magnificent service: specialist medical attention combined with customer service, food and standards of comfort which you might expect in a luxury hotel. Women come from far and wide to enjoy its luxury. Arrangements can be made for the new father to have a bed in the same room as his wife after the baby has arrived, thus sharing those special moments from the word go. Wonderful! 

Why don't all women receive a version of this service when they go into labour? Well, because it all comes with a bill of around £40,000! 

Amazing stuff! How the other half live!