a country for old men ...

I have drivers you know. 

Old men mostly, on whom time hangs heavily, so they find nothing better to do then become hospital transport drivers for the unable but not actually about to croak on the way. Some of them are so decrepit that I often wonder whether I should take a first aid course in case I’m called upon to deliver a burst of resus en route. And they’re all, without exception, quite mad.  Today I had Bill, he reeks of smoke, drives one handed and talks incessantly about his life in the army whilst looking at me and not the road.  I cling to the door in fascinated fear as he recalls his time as a cold war warrior doing nothing very much except in the Middle East where he appears to have taken delight in actually having an ‘enemy’ to fire upon.  He has a chest that rattles alarmingly on each painful inhalation and a wheezing productive cough that sees us stray regularly into the opposite carriageway.  It would be an ask too much were he to conk out and I required to perform the kiss of life. I’m sorry to say I just wouldn’t, but I would be sorry for his demise.

Sometimes I have Harry who is a touch on the over-familiar side. He is given to patting me with his gnarled old retired parachutist hand and calling me sweetheart.  Surprisingly, for I don’t like being man handled, I quite like him.  He doesn’t reek of smoke and his tales of daring do are laced with a hint of the secretive and imply he was where the action was in an undercover way, parachuting behind the lines and saving the world. He never comes right out and says it, but I’m given to understand, and I make sure I look like I do, that he walked the hallowed hallways of the SAS and stormed more embassies than you’ve had baths. As a rule Harry also stays on the correct side of the road and keeps at least one eye on the road even if the other is wandering where it really shouldn’t in a man of his age.

John, came across country 80 miles to pick me up the other morning.  He appeared a relatively normal looking old chap, quite dapper so also probably ex-military.  Like Bill and Harry, John is a widower and fills his days with ferrying the needy hither and thither. I’ve only had him the one time, probably because he decided to overtake on a blind bend and couldn’t help but notice me screaming about the oncoming vehicle that suddenly hove into view.  He spent the rest of the journey apologising and I’m sure I tried to reassure him that it was fine but my general demeanor of tension and the way I clung white knuckled to the door handle belayed the lie.

Martin is a nightmare. He believes he’s a cut above the rest and talks about himself in the third person. “Martin’s just going to look at his map” he says brightly whilst whipping out his OS and obliterating the windscreen and view of on coming traffic, but continuing to travel at the maximum speed limit. He also wears shorts in all weathers and has knees that should be illegal so offensive are they.  “Martin loves a jolly jape” he tells me as “Martin was in the ‘city’ and fun was in short supply”, “Martin loves transporting the old and feeble (he calls us patients) about the countryside for their pleasure” (really Martin, to hospital?)  and “Martin is an all round good egg”. Martin needs to fuck off I’m keen to tell him but after all, I think, I’m grateful for the service even if the risk of imminent mortality is greater traveling with these old geezers who, when all is said and done, have worked all their lives and find they can’t stop. 

So who better to take advantage of them and their, without exception, pristine vehicles for a pitiful mileage allowance. Non other than our beleaguered NHS. So while the Hospital administrators and private companies circling like sharks make a pretty penny from the system, our pensioners are upholding the system and without whom many of us would fail to even receive the care and treatment available to us.  

I’m so grateful and so angry all in the same breath.