Partly out of coyness, but chiefly because I object to the cost and hassle of having to buy cake for everyone on the desk, I tend to keep these things quiet, especially when they fall during the working week, so I am happy that my birthday sneaked through unnoticed. An MRI scan of my dodgy knee first thing on Wednesday morning was the main highlight of the day although on returning home I found Lottie had baked me a chocolate raisin cake and Jimmy had lined up MacSween haggis, neeps, tatties, baked beans and cabbage for a celebratory supper. If I couldn’t have haggis on the bards birthday why not indeed on my own?
The thoughtful supper, an amusing card with a long heartfelt message and a present of a bottle of Adnams and a hunk of cheese. I was very much at the forefront of Jimmy’s thoughts which was sweet. However, the following evening she revealed that she had tried to ring me in the office. She wanted to ask if I would pay for her computer to have a new hard drive installed. Humphf. Anyway, be that as it may, she had dialled the office number she found on the front cover of the address book we keep by the phone in the kitchen. “Oh morning” she’d said to the person who answered the phone, “could I speak to David Sandison please. It’s his daughter Jimmy.” The sense of bemusement was palpable apparently. Amazingly enough the guy had heard of me, but as I left CIMB in early 2013 he must be wondering what sort of domestic arrangement I keep if my very daughter doesn’t know what I’ve been doing with myself these last four years.
My MRI scan followed an earlier appointment with an osteopathic surgeon who investigated my right knee which I may have mentioned I injured when out for a run slipping into an icy muddy puddle. It would appear its nothing too serious, but my ears pricked up when he said “Just make sure when you get home you put your feet up”. I asked for that in writing. This was providing me with a fine opportunity to sit and watch some sport on the telly, but he hasn’t met Sophie.
Talking about putting your feet up reminds me that once before have I had a brush with death. Way back when, Sophie ordered me to the doctor on the other side of Parsons Green tired of my moaning about an agonisingly sore stomach. When I got there Dr McMichen gave me a cursory inspection and called the Cromwell to book me in for an emergency appendectomy. He asked me if I had someone who could drive me up there and let me use his phone when I told him my girlfriend had a car. “Sorry I can’t. I’ve just painted my toenails” was the terse response when I rang home. So I stumbled back down the Kings Road, and drove myself up to the hospital with Sophie sitting in the passenger seat, bare feet ( gorgeous toes btw ) on the dashboard of her little yellow Mini. Twenty minutes after arriving I was under the knife. And, if I still have you though this may not surprise, when I was released from hospital a couple of days later, I went away up to Scotland for a bit of R&R under the caring eye of my mother. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it Soph I thought then…and occasionally still do.
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