An open field of filth

I live in a shithole. That's what my suburb's name means in ye olde Englysshe.

I went on a random walk this morning. No map, no plan. I went down an alley and stumbled across a 50s council estate, with semis and play areas for the urchins, from the lost time when people were housed decently and not for profit.

Then, again by accident, to the parish church with a jumbled graveyard, full of primroses. The oldest remaining parts of the church are from C16th, although according to its bell ringers' website, the peculiar shape of the graveyard suggests pagan origins, and it's possible that no less than St Augustine, or one of his followers, had a church built there to replace the heathen cesspit of un-Christian activity.

In the graveyard is buried John Frost, a leading Chartist, showing that even then Bristol was full of revolting peasants. He was hanged, drawn and quartered for his trouble, and his lumps now rest in my parish's graveyard.

There are some gifted, beplaqued benches, which I have earmarked for peaceable drinking. The website says that the Rector will be opening the church on Saturday mornings, so I'm going to call in to express my appreciation of the erection, to locate its architectural features noted in the English Heritage citation for its Grade II* listing, and to find Frost's grave. What you find when you look without seeking!

I've had some interesting birthdays in my time, but I've never spent one cleaning a gynaecological ward.

On my first day at the hospital, me and an uncommunicative man starting at the same time as me were shown into a tiny room. We were given a stapled pamphlet which told us that we should respect each other, embrance change and celebrate difference, or respect change, celebrate each other, and embrace difference. I forget which. When my fellow starter was made to speak, his speech impediment was revealed, which made me ashamed of my silent irritation with him earlier.

I was relieved to be told that they were not expecting me there for fifteen hours a day, but just the second part of it, from four till ten, Monday to Friday. We get time-and-a-half from eight o'clock, which makes up for the short shifts.

I was visited upon an Anglo-Chinese man in his early thirties who wasn't expecting me. He dealt with this unexpected coat-tails hanger-on with admirable forebearance. We have to clean examination rooms, in which there are instruments that would make the hardiest man quail. Now, even the word "speculum" makes me cross my legs.

It's a doss of a job. I was told to slow down as I gave the taps an excessively vigorous hand job. Now that he feels safe with me, we sit doing nothing in reception for at least an hour of each shift, which I spend with A Confederacy of Dunces.