I'd Better be More PC from Now On.

So things return to normal. Life after BON. Well, not quite yet back to normal. At the moment I seem to have gained many followers and my daily 'hit list' has increased at least ten fold. Still on a 'visible list at present. It won't last but it's been good fun. So what happens now. Do I change my style. ( As if I could!) Do I find divine inspiration to create wonderful wise uplifting posts or do I battle on with the same old weekly drivel; no prizes for guessing which it will be! One further point. This post, by necessity is somewhat long, the opposite as to what a good post should be. Bear with me and I promise the next post will not exceed fifty lines. Honest!
It did occur to me that in view of my new found 'fame' I ought to become more 'politically correct' (Do other continents and countries subscribe to this politically correct agenda. Please tell me, I'd love to know.) Attitudes are strange things, born of prejudices, and our personal interpretation of experiences. Now I wouldn't dream of referring to a coloured person in the derogatory dismissive terms that abounded in my youth. The word 'Nigger' was in common usage, now I find it difficult to even write such a word. We have moved on from such ignorant times, thank God. But even at the age of seventy one (I have to think twice as to my age!) I am far from clear sometimes as to what is acceptable and what is out of order.
I have on many occasions visited friends, relations and colleagues who have for various reasons been incarcerated in local psychiatric hospitals. At one time I would have written lunatic asylums or mental hospitals. See, I am not afraid to change with the times. But who decides such things; who is 'right' concerning such matters. (Please do not consider me totally senile. I fully understand that any behaviour that upsets another human being is unacceptable)
I well remember regularly visiting a friend in one particular hospital. The atmosphere was often fraught. Amongst the residents, patients, clients (again the 'jargon' varied over the years) was a 'Jesus Christ' and a 'Napoleon'; visits were often bizarre but seldom dull.
On one occasion a football suddenly appeared on a grassed area outside closely followed by two or three patients dressed only in pajamas. Two patients in our room argued vehemently over a class of orange juice. (One being my patient friends 'friend' so to speak. His name was Tom I was informed although he had the name 'Dave' tattooed on his arm!)
A young patient informed me I had been his teacher at school and invited me to a game of table tennis. Relieved to escape the gloomy atmosphere of the day room I followed my new friend to the adjoining games room. I was handed a bat and my opponent, bat in one hand, ball in the other prepared to serve. With not a little disbelief I noted that, though the net was correctly placed, one half of the table was missing. I could not fail to notice also, surprise, surprise, that it was my end of the table that was not present! Now to anyone in this position, there are several things that go through your mind. One, someone is 'taking the mickey', a possibility in the circumstances both disturbing and amusing. Two, the patient has not noticed or does not know the other half is missing. Three, he knows the half is missing but is afraid to tell you for some reason or other. Four, he is watching you, and whatever you do, you mustn't do anything that might suggest all is not well.
The young man smiled, threw up the ball, quite deftly I thought, and methodically but correctly struck the ball so that it bounced on his side. The ball cleared the net and bounced on the floor in front of me.
'One-nil' he called politely. I retrieved the ball with difficulty from under various stacked chairs. My opponent repeated his serve, I repeated my retrieval.
'Two-nil' came the triumphant call. Serves three and four I attempted to volley, with only partial success. As a spectacle our game was a distinct non-starter. I never did find out how I was to serve from my end when my turn came.
As the ball once again passed my outstretched bat on point five I ever so carefully, oh so carefully stepped on the offending object; cruel maybe but practical. My opponent did not appear too offended, partly, I suspect, due to the opposition (me) offering so little resistance to his determined approach.
Our less than scintillating game, I might add, was enacted to the accompaniment of a mournful dirge emitting from a clarinet played with gusto by a young man standing alongside our table (or half a table.) He in turn was watched with admiration by an old lady (presumably his mother.)
My table tennis friend and I returned to the day room. Veiled threats and less than veiled threats of violence concerning orange juice still sailed round the room. Shortly afterwards I made my excuses and left. Down the drive a patient in pajamas was to be seen directing traffic on the frighteningly busy duel carriageway immediately outside the hospital gates. I reported my observations and left for the nearest public house.

A strange evening indeed, in the distant past. Less enlightened times; non 'PC' times. So am I now being 'Not PC' in relating my experiences. Should I know better. I'm not completely sure I care. So one more story.

Our beloved Queen, Elizabeth was shown round the Royal Derby Psychiatric Hospital recently, the occasion being the Centenary of the hospital, previously known as the Derby Asylum. The inmates, now called patients were lined up outside to meet Her Majesty. And she merrily went down the line dutifully chatting to the assembled throng. Until she came to a little, very dignified old man.

'And you, my man, how are you?' enquired the Queen.

'Not 'appy, I shouldn't be here, mate,' answered the man, 'there's nothing wrong with me. I've bin Sectioned incorrectly. They've been holding me against me will for many years. Can you help?'

'Oh dear,' said the Queen. 'I tell you what.' (The Queen likes to adopt the vernacular of the common man when she's on her travels.) 'I tell you what, when I get back to Buckingham Palace I'll make some enquiries on your behalf.'

'Thank you, ma'am, thank you,' said the little man gratefully.

And the Queen nodded graciously and passed down the line.

She had gone but a few paces when a ruddy great house brick hit her on the back of the head. The Queen staggered to her knees, regained her composure, stood up and turned round.

'Don't forget' shouted the little man.

Now that's definitely a 'Not PC' story!