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Meetings are held on the first and third Tuesdays of the month at Dancox House Club Room, St Clements Gardens, St Johns, Worcester from 7.30 pm to 9.30pm.
If you want to know more about Worcester Writers' Circle, please telephone Sue Round, Secretary 01905 619062.
Probably the oldest writers' circle in the country, we have grown from half a dozen enthusiasts in the dark days of the Second World War, to a thriving and productive group of people who share their experiences, successes and pitfalls at each meeting. We have a wide range of writers, some published professionals, some occasionally appearing in magazines, and many newcomers eager to see their name in print.
At a normal meeting, we read from our work, sometimes on a theme set for the evening and we offer advice and reactions. A cup of tea and a chat of course, and discussions about markets, successes and rejections. Sometimes we have a speaker from amongst our ranks, or a guestjoining us for the evening. Our interests are wide - stories, Westerns, nostalgia, poetry, biography, roofing and cats have all featured at our meetings. If you can get to Worcester, (that's the one in Worcestershire, England) give us a try.
Hip Op Hurray!
by John Newton
I'm waiting at the doctor's, ambushed by sniveling kids. They've found the toys, left on the floor for their amusement (and cross-infection), and one small boy pedals a rusty bus against my shins. Another little monster teaches an old lady a sharp lesson - that "educational" building blocks hurt swollen ankles. She smiles in the sorrowful way of spinsters when confronted by young mothers with small children, but am I the only one who hears the rasp of breath - the only one to see gnarled fingers clenched in despair?
But I'm in a crabby mood and too absorbed in my own affliction to say anything. I just sigh, hoping someone will discipline these louts-in-the-making before it's too late. I'm ashamed to say, I'm jealous, because the old girl's taken the only upright chair. Yet, I pity her, asking myself, how these proud mothers can remain unmoved, while a frail little pensioner is punished, simply because she is what she is.
'It's an arthritic hip, you've got there', the doc says with the air of an inventor who thinks he's cracked perpetual motion, 'we'll have to get that seen to, old chap.'
Old chap, my foot!
Then comes the consultation. The surgeon, a man of terrifying intellect, confirms the diagnosis but, just whose hip is it? Then it's the long wait. First it's walking with a stick, and then, with sticks. Now the pain is there all the time, but the comfort of soaking in a soothing bath with a glass of wine is spoiled for me, for this is now a hazardous pursuit of the gravest kind. There's the constant fear of slippery surfaces.
At last, comes the call to go to hospital and I turn up, brave-faced, intending to run the show my way, but I'm treated like an infant from the start. I'm even put into a sort of baby's night dress which ties at the back. And, as I climb into bed, I'm sure one of the nurses peeps underneath, to see if it's a boy or a girl.
I wonder: is it true about night nurses? But it's not, as I soon find out. They treat us like babies too, but I soon learn to take a child's revenge: I keep calling to have my bottle changed in the early hours. That scares them.
Down I go to theatre on a wayward trolley with supermarket wheels, steered and cheered by hearty porters. Two brawny comedians. I'm tempted to sing the advert song, "There may be trouble ahead . . . ,". but the clank of heavy instruments in metal dishes stills my tongue. I spot the steely-eyed surgeon peering through his slotted headgear. The knight in green linen will vanquish the fiery dragon at my hip. I acknowledge him with a deferential nod, hoping he registers my gratitude and admiration, for I want him to be very careful with the leg: my leg. The anesthetist hovers with words of comfort, and anxious eyes. Electrodes on chest. Heart in mouth.
Out like a light - then groaning in a strange place. The swish and rustle of crisp-clean uniforms. Thick-soled shoes scurrying about. A fluttering by my ear and a gentle tap-tap at my shoulder. I open my eyes and look into two dark pools of consummate compassion. It's an angel with jet black hair and smiling, oval face. A Filipino nurse tries to spirit my pain away with love.
Bottles and drips on stands. Pipes up nose. Tubes in hands. Some bell-push thing between my fingers, 'Press the button if it hurts,' says a voice of Far Eastern promise. And I grasp and squeeze at once. The pain is gone and I'm back in sleep but the pain returns and I squeeze again and again each time I wake. A morphine addict for the night.
There's no lasting respite, and in the morning I'm leaning on a Zimmer frame. An elderly person on the move. There's a draft at my back as my gown swings open.
'He's got a nice bum,' says a new voice with a cheeky Irish lilt.
'Ah-ha!' I think (old fool that I am), but as I turn, it's only a green-eyed, red-head nurse checking for bedsores.
Or, maybe nappy-rash?
Worried wife with flowers from garden. Autumn scents on the sterile air. Cards from caring friends.
Next day a coven of physios appears, to mobilize the mountain of flesh they must despise. The flab cringes into its nightie to degenerate some more but there's no way out. The blankets are whipped away and I'm told to lower my legs to the floor.
They subject me to a cruel regime of exercises for which I have no muscles.
'You wouldn't think I used to run,' I gasp, hoping to retain some measure of dignity, '. . . and anyway I wasn't fat before they took my appendix out'. But it makes no difference: the physios assert their will and I obey them with a whimper. But those clever witches' spell works, and I quickly manage an automaton's cranky walk down endless corridors.
More cards come from guilty acquaintances as rumours of my early return are spread.
Days shoot by and it's time for home. There's a list, with illustrations, of dos and don'ts. There's a three month ban on loving in the usual way, but an alternative for those who cannot wait. There are no illustrations, and, sadly overlooked, is how a hormonally-challenged septuagenarian might sustain the pose described. Apart from that, the rocket fuel administered before the knives were drawn would surely ground a much younger man's aspirations for quite a while.
Now I'm thankful to walk despite a John Wayne swagger, and to sit and stand without a twinge. Now I sleep the night through, albeit on my back with a pillow wedged between my thigh-length, white-stockinged legs. A principal boy shares his bed with a Dutch wife.
Meanwhile, my lovely nurse will continue her magic on succeeding hostages to old age, and send her meagre savings across the world to the proud family she remembers in her nightly prayers.
Copyright © 2004 JOHN NEWTON