Take a break. Enjoyed it?

Got home around 2 pm. I started cooking lunch. Yesterday's vegetables were too spicy for madame. It was a melange of stir-fried onions, orange pepper, courgettes, carrots, potatoes, tomatoes and one crunchy apple, seared in a wok, with a made-up seasoning of soy sauce, dash of Worcestershire Sauce (or Wooster Sauce, as it's pronounced in the UK), tomato paste, some paprika, mild curry powder, and a sprinkling of Knorr's chicken stock. I served it with rice I cooked with some (weak) chicken stock. I already had some tomato soup I made the previous night, so that only needed reheating. Majesty gulped it like it was still Poland, 1944 (did I mention both parents are Holocaust survivors?) Sure set them, mother more so than father, psychologically umm, shall we say "challenging"? Wolfing food down is one of the side-effects, as well as the obsession with food, hatred of eating in public (restaurant experience? Don't ask), hoarding of well, anything at all, irrational fear of any type of authority, uniformed or implied, the list doesn't really stop. So, despite having plenty of left-over food from yesterday, I made a fresh batch of vegetables, slightly different from yesterday's, and finished them au-gratin with a mix of fresh breadcrumbs and Parmesan. Not too spicy for you? Too crunchy!
I rewarded myself for my trouble with a can of Goldstar, my favourite Israeli beer (dark lager since you asked), and I thought I would nap it off before driving back to the hospital, but a call from my niece Adi came as a rude awakening: Dad has been moved from Cardiac to Internal. My mum went slightly madder than before (who knew that was still possible). A scene followed, with me trying to get a moment of privacy, in the smallest room in the house, you with me? and she comes banging (ok, knocking, but I mean, c'mon!), "what do you think you're doing, chatting on the phone in there" and so on. Without giving you too much information (oops, too late!) let me tell you, my sphyncter clammed shut so fast, I thought I heard it scream. Or was it me?
So, back to hospital immediately. Not of a lot of use - they were not going to keep him in Cardiac for much longer, we kind of knew that anyway. My mother: "they waited until we were gone and then they moved him". Another conspiracy exposed then.
The new room is vastly different. No more the 5 star luxury of one patient to a huge room, with an electrically adjustable bed. Indeed, there are now 4 patients in the room (designed for 3 incidentally, but they are very busy...) and worse - they just tossed him on the new bed the wrong way round, so he couldn't have his upper back propped up for reclining or sitting, but he could have his legs at any angle he desired. Brilliant. Took me over an hour to get a nurse to help me turn the bed around in a crowded room, with visitors trampling underfoot, chairs to move around, bags everywhere, why, I almost took some poor chap's portable drip out...
And how is dad? Well, he is bewildered form the total change in his treatment, but there are other things to keep his spirits up. Suddenly there is human company there to add a new aspect on his own life. Illness, much like death is a great leveller. More on dad's (and by association, our) new found friends later.