We were nearly late for the appointment. Couldn’t find anywhere to park. The only spaces near the hospital were for wheelchair users – don’t you think they could be further away? After all – they’ve got wheels.
So, the professor got me to walk up and down a bit and prodded me and said ‘yes, that’s Parkinson’s.’ My wife said ‘how can you tell just from that?’ The professor said ‘well, there are other signs too. Your handwriting has got very small, for one thing. And your facial muscles seem a bit frozen – you seem to be finding it difficult to smile.’ ‘Well, that could be,’ I said, ‘because you’ve just told me I’ve got Parkinson’s.’
Mrs B has seen me coming; is already standing in the porch, in fact, with last month’s library books neatly bagged up.
“How did you enjoy them?” I ask.
“Very good. I’ve given this one five stars.”
When I’d left the library last night, they’d been there. Two enormous orange crates containing bags stuffed with library books; all checked out, labelled and ready to go. Not something you’d easily mislay. Now Mr Vestibule and I are looking at the space where the crates had been, but no matter how hard we look, they ain’t there.