Once Squish was born, she needed to be in the hospital with her mum for a few days. Not ideal, but necessary. During the delivery period, we had our own private suite -but once Squish had arrived, we were understandably moved to a larger ward for us to recover. Still lovely, it meant sharing the space with 5 other new families. When we arrived on the ward, only one other mum was present but by the second day it was full. The initial mum on the ward was quite amusing. Shall we say, slightly Chavvy? Slightly may be an understatement. And, as you may have guessed, that’s where our story begins…
Firstly, let me set the scene. The fact that I can provide these story details is an indication of the volume in which events unfolded. Our bed was C6. Closest to the entrance, on the right-hand side. The first mum was located on the opposite side of the room. Far, left-hand side. The mother (let’s call her Chav-in-the-corner) had given birth without a birthing partner, and was quite annoyed at this fact. So the first few hours of their baby’s life were filled with mum yelling at dad down the phone. What a glorious start. Squish’s first few hours consisted of us laughing. At the Chav-in-the-corner. Thank goodness for the separation curtain dividers!
A few more families arrived, and finally ‘the phonecall from hell’ ended with an ubrupt: “Oy! No. Just shuttup, yeah? Shuttup!” The ward occupants started to suspect they may get some rest following the tantrum-style hangup, but it quickly became apparent this wasn’t the case. The phone soon rang and the onslaught of verbal abuse resumed. “I need f@*$!?g nappies!! Why don’t I have them… Nah the hospital don’t give ’em. Maxeeen needs changin!” Sorry to all you Maxine’s out there, but the way in which she said the name has scared its use for me now.
Next up, the staff were in the line of fire. I should point out here, that the staff here at the hospital have been incredible. All my life, I have experienced Brighton hospital and as a result, assumed hospitals are bleak and moody places. Not true. Our trip to Worthing hospital just revealed how amazing it can be. Brighton has a lot of stepping up to do! I won’t be visiting there anytime soon! Anyway, back to point, Chav-in-the-corner was in the middle of a rant to the innocent staff for not letting her take the baby downstairs so she could “have a fag”. Brilliant. I think she planned on getting ‘Maxeeen’ into nicotine at an early age. I guess the childcare allowance needs to go somewhere.
A few hours of complaining to the midwives and healthcare assistants later, the family members started arriving. Not ours. Hers. We were trying to rest, but the sudden stream of family members began. It started with the father (I’m presuming that’s who he was, admittedly), this was closely followed by a steady stream of ten to fifteen children (ok I’m exaggerating a teeny bit). Then came the multiple-party argument. “Why did you take ’em outta school? Now I’m gonna have to come up with letters for teachers. It’s all your fault. You had better brung nappies!!”
Shortly after that cufuffle, the other kids started to get restless. “Mercedes, stop bothering the next bed… Jayden, stop throwing those pens around… Jordan! Maxeeen is not a toy! Stop spinning her!”
Once the kids had gone. I’m not sure who called the truancy hotline to tip them off, but I have the phone number if anyone needs it. Then came a BFF. The conversation that then occurred was crude at best. An extremely graphic description of her baby’s birth was then broadcast across the ward by the foghorn-mouthed Chav-in-the-corner. “No way. Shuttup!” / “Yes way.” / “They gonna make a to show about you!” / “Yeah probs. I am well photogenic.” (She wasn’t).
After an eternity of visiting hours (by the way, everyone else’s visitors were lovely – but somehow Chav-in-the-corner trumped), the doors were shut to visitors and mums, dads and babies alike started settling down for an early evening rest.
Finally, a now-full ward was quietening for nap time. Understand that this ward was made up of 6 families with all newborn babies. So it was quite common for them to cry. The mothers were all very good, but there’s only so much you can do (as I’m quickly learning!) to calm a crying baby. But every time a baby even slightly whined, the Chav-in-the-corner made the lowest a puff of disapproval. I mean practically exhaling an oxygen tank. Through a pin hole. Down a microphone. With added reverb. I can understand being annoyed after just settling the baby down. But this was every single time. I think one time, a baby sneezed and the Chav nearly exploded with puff. Maybe she’d managed to sneak in a fag.
Now, I’m a kinda forgiving guy, but once she puffed once at my little Squish – well, that’s when I knew I needed to write this post. It’s now day three at the hospital and we’re still on the ward. Sadly, so is Chav-in-the-corner. So now I’ve resorted to casually walking passed their curtain every time I need to fart. Next up is throwing soggy wotsits over the curtain. I think I’ll try that one later today. I recorded a video to prove that this blog isn’t as far-fetched as you might imagine… But I thought I’d may be a bit distasteful. Come ask me in real life, it’s saved on my phone under ‘LOLs’.