The Funny Thing about Norman Foreman Julietta Henderson (short books for teens .TXT) 📖

laugh, by telling them a story about a Five Year Plan that turned into a real-life adventure.

But I knew I hadn’t woken up an entirely different person really, because even while I was thinking about all that amazing stuff, when I was sat on the deck of the houseboat with maybe nobody in the world awake except for me, the thing I most wanted was to see my mum.

50Sadie

If I were to say what I’d like to, which was that a miracle occurred at Wishaw Hospital that night and I didn’t need the surgery, it wouldn’t be entirely true. Because it turned out my very unfashionable obstruction was definitely not going to go away on its own. So there went that theory, once and for all.

‘I trust you understand how seriously you need to take your situation, Mrs, er, um . . .’ The doctor I’d mistaken for an intern was so young and frail he was practically buckling under the weight of my medical chart. I thought he might blow away in the breeze. ‘Um . . . Foreman. Yes, Mrs Foreman.’ I was surprised he could read at his age. ‘I’ve seen people come very close to death from an obstruction not even half as bad as yours, you know.’

I was very tempted to say, ‘Have you? Have you really? Where was that then, kindergarten?’ I didn’t, though, because blaming the poor little guy for a hatchet job some absent-minded surgeon did on me more than three decades ago was probably a bit unfair, considering he probably wasn’t even born back then.

‘I do, I do take it seriously,’ I said. ‘But it can wait a couple of weeks or so, right? The nurse said if . . .’

‘Mrs Foreman. It’s really not advisable to delay these things for too long. It’s quite a simple operation and . . .’

‘Miss. It’s Miss Foreman. Mrs Foreman’s already dead, and I get it. Of course. Not advisable. Understood. On the record. But possible, right? I mean, I’m not likely to drop dead in the next couple of days now it’s under control, if I understand the situation correctly?’

‘Well, no. It’s not very likely you’d . . . err . . . be rendered deceased in the foreseeable future, but I strongly . . . umm, recommend you . . . err, well . . .’

I almost felt sorry for him. The chance to get in there and clear out my pipes might have been his first big break, for all I knew. He’d probably been planning his little anaesthetized archaeological dig all night. But I had someone else’s big break to get to, thanks very much.

‘Great! Wonderful! It’s a plan, then!’

So, after a bit more blustering about it being very much against his better judgement the doctor reluctantly signed my escape warrant. Whether that was due to the compelling case I’d put forward or he just wanted to get rid of me so he didn’t have to listen to me misuse the word ‘stat’ at every opportunity just for fun wasn’t clear. But I didn’t care. There was no way I was spending one more minute than I had to lying in that Scottish hospital away from Norman. Getting Junior’s grudging blessing was merely the skin around my haggis.

In the end, though, despite winning the battle I had no intention of losing, what with all the temperature taking, poking and prodding and promising to see my GP as soon as I got back to Penzance, it was eleven o’clock before I got the sign-off from the hospital. And then it was another half an hour before Leonard arrived, without Norman, because he was apparently getting in some last-minute practice back at the Soft Fudge.

I don’t know if it was Goth girl’s pep talk, the drugs I’d been necking for the past eighteen hours, or the gentle reassurance of Leonard’s presence, but I felt strangely calm about the whole situation. Everything just felt . . . taken care of. When Dicky arrived at the hospital to deliver us to the Austin, I wished my doctor good luck with the rest of his career, Uncle Lenny took my arm like he was walking me into the Oscars and we departed Wishaw Hospital, I sincerely hoped for ever.

There was a small hitch when we got to Mickey’s garage in Biggar, when the car wasn’t quite as ready as it should have been, but instead of getting worked up about it I simply told myself Norman was perfectly safe back at the Soft Fudge and we still had plenty of time to get back to Edinburgh before his show. Then I lay down across the only two chairs in the oily garage waiting room and took a little nap, if you don’t mind. Probably the drugs, then.

When we finally got on the road a little over three hours later, the Zen I’d been emanating was definitely more than a little reduced. But within a few minutes of waving goodbye to Dicky and Mickey I realized that Leonard probably really had been the 1969 British off-road rally champion. Because when speed mattered, Leonard stepped up.

I looked over at him leaning into the curves of the narrow road and he suddenly looked about twenty years younger. The steering wheel rested effortlessly in the wrinkled hands I’d seen fumbling ineptly with door handles and mobile phone buttons, and it felt like the car was hovering a few inches above the bumpy bitumen. As I sat back, relaxed and enjoyed the ride, I thought to myself, well, one just never knows, eh? And it turned out there was quite a bit more of that to come.

Back at the hospital, I’d broached the topic of Leonard’s early-morning jaunt again, and again he’d dodged my questions, but with a promise to tell me everything on the trip back to Edinburgh. So now that we were well and truly on the road, even though the drugs were definitely wearing off, I decided the best way forward was straight through. Which was uncharacteristic, to say the least.

‘All