Yesterday, all my troubles weren’t far enough away.

Yesterday I had one of those days. One of those days that could be blogged in a number of ways. What story would you like? The gory medical story? The rant against bureaucracy? The fable of the futility of planning?

Let’s start at the beginning. Last week, I had a minor operation – a small, benign cyst removed from my side, where it had got increasingly annoying. No problem.

Yesterday, one week on, I went back to the daycare department to have my sutures removed. I never fail to wonder at how quickly I get seen when I go private. I waited not even long enough to figure out if I wanted tea or coffee, yet alone how to operate the machine, a variation on those ones with the inflatable sachets you invariably get in expensive advertising agencies.

The stitches came out. The nurse made all the right noises about it looking clean and nice, and sent me on my way.

During the rest of the morning the scar prickled and irritated and generally felt as if it still had the stitches in place. But there was better to come. I went to a shopping centre just after lunch, and felt a ripping sensation as I got into the car. My hands were dirty, so I didn’t investigate what had happened. I moved car parks and went to the next shop, all the while trying to ignore the wet sensation that I was imagining.

When I got back home and removed my fleece, my fears were confirmed. There was a big bloody blob on the side of my shirt. A quick look at what was underneath looked like a big hole with some white fatty stuff looking as if it was peeking out.

Before I got too involved in looking at the details – not to mention wobbly – I grabbed the hospital’s number and called them. I realised I didn’t know if I should go to the private hospital, with no A&E, or the National Health one with the emergency facilities.

They said ‘come in’, and I got seen almost immediately.

Great. But then no-one knew if I was covered by my health insurance for the new stitching. I had to stop the doctor from starting work on me, while the nurse found out if I was going to be billed for the procedure or not. She ended up clearing the procedure with BUPA herself. Only then could I get stitched up.

To readers in the States, this kind of thing may be usual. But to me, brought up with the National Health Service, the beauracracy of private health cover seems unbelievable. This cannot be an efficient way to run the service.

Oh, and work completed, about an hour.

The epitome of a cool day.

The Beach Hotel and promenade. 15 November 2003

Yesterday, Sam and I had lunch at the Fly-In Bar at Shoreham Airport, in this rather fine Art Deco terminal building. Shoreham is the UK’s oldest civilian airport, apparently.

We sat right by the window and watched the light aircraft and helicopters taking off and landing.

But after two days of ghastly weather, the sun came out, and it’s the Worthing Festival, with a vintage bus rally on the seafront and an American and Custom Car rally in Steyne Gardens. Not to mention a funfair and other stuff along by the pier.

I wonder what we did this afternoon? Still, I have done the VAT.

If I had a digital camera, I could share it all with you.

And after this week’s flirtation with a highly politically correct SmartCar, I’ve decided what I really want is a 1950s Cadillac convertible with heaps of chrome and ginormous fins!

Sounds kinda nice, doesn’t it?

With the chilled bottle of Viognier, marinated jerk chicken and herb salad.

Between you and me, it didn’t quite work out like that.

Maybe I’m just out out of practice with charcoal-type BBQs… but we haven’t got the space for the gas model we’ve been using for the past few years. And then the arse fell out of it sitting in my parents’ shed not long ago.

I thought a pack of those impregnated bags of charcoal would make life easier. But no. I lit it easy enough, but there was just too much fuel for anything other than a large family-sized BBQ.

But we were hungry. Slap on the chicken and some sausages as soon as the charcoal is coated in ash.

Mistake. Immediate conversion of surface of food into charcoal. As if we didn’t have enough of the stuff.

And before the middle was properly cooked, we had a whole load more charcoal.

We wanted the fish and chips being consumed by the three women who sat just along from us. But we had the Viognier. And the sunset and dogs were nice.

Maybe we’ll try it again tomorrow. It can’t be that difficult, can it?

It’s as good Tex-Mex food as any I’ve had this side of the Atlantic.

Our friends Pete and Marla took us there (thanks!). Now, Marla was born in CA, they have a house outside Tucson, Arizona, and she had a Mexican takeaway business in Bath. So she knows her Mexican food!

Having noticed one or two signs on the menu that suggested Montague’s knows its stuff, we ventured in. Turns out the owner’s brother lives in San Francisco, and she’d done her research.

Everything we had was great – including probably the best ribs any of us have had in the UK. My spicy meatballs were pretty special, too.

We’ll be back!

BMW’s new car ready to Roll. The new Rolls-Royce car is unveiled by its German owners, BMW, who bought up the prestigious British brand name in 1998. [BBC News | Front Page | UK Edition]

At a time when BMW have finally put a great piece of automotive design on the road (the new(ish) 7 Series), the BMW-owned RR come up with this! And it’s made just down the road from here in Goodwood. I think it’s probably too late to have a word…

Or maybe the floods will get it