The midnight trip to Vanier wasn’t that interestin

I think it is fair to say that had I really known what an MRI entailed, I might have been a little more anxious about going. Maybe I should have known – I have, after all, had one before; I certainly didn’t remember it being like this. Not that it was particularly unpleasant - it was just loud.

Anyway, I arrived at Montfort Hospital at the appointed hour and found it deserted. Thankfully the receptionist who booked it had given me pretty precise details about how to find the room, because – and as is the case with most hospitals these days – it was a warren. I sat down, read for 10 minutes, then a nurse came to get me. I got changed, ran through the checklist of implants with the technician and had none (including penile!), then was told to get on the bench and lie still for 20 minutes. Then “bang”, “crash”, “beep BEEEP BEEEEP”, “bang”, “whoop, whoop, whoop”, “CRASH” – and it was all over. Now I know what it is like being in a coffin. Apparently the “whoop, whoop, whoop” was when they were checking my sinuses – so perhaps we will find out what is responsible for my absent sense of smell after all.
 
Home at 1.30am, and then to bed in the basement where, despite reading a little more of the final volume of Clive James’s memoirs, I failed to get to sleep until at least 4. The morning saw me awoken by either a small herd of elephants’ clog dancing practice in the dining room or Ottawacker Jr. getting ready for school. Awake, and that was it for the day.
 
The rest of the day was spent in a sort of haze. I did some work – but quite honestly very little – and contemplated getting the basement ready for J’s visit this weekend. But didn’t. Oh well. At 11, I took Tui to the vet as she had developed diarrhea (Tui, not the vet, although to be honest, I didn’t ask) and after what happened to poor Saga, we aren’t taking any chances. They took the opportunity to sell me a geriatric profile (for Tui, not me, although to be honest, it would be better for me) and $550 and one hour later we emerged with a small bottle of anti-diarrheal medicine.
 
More work, a nice note from Tim in the mail, and steak and baked vegetables for dinner. Mrs. Ottawacker helped this time by lying on the kitchen floor and telling me about her day, which despite its having occurred less than 20 feet from where mine took place, I knew astoundingly little about. Then time to help Ottawacker Jr. with his French presentation for tomorrow, an episode of Foyle’s War, and then bed, where I failed to sleep once again.