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Jan remains ever-present in our thoughts as the slow machinery of farewell begins to turn. It’s tough—no way around that. But in honour of her spirit (and with her unmistakable standards echoing in our minds), we’ve been rating the potential venues for the funeral tea.

One was an immediate no: grey walls, no charm, and a general air of gloom.Another fell short thanks to an indifferent ‘events’ manager who seemed more interested in ticking boxes than offering care.One stood out for its empathy, kindness, and genuine availability—a clear front-runner.And then there was the riverside hotel, her favourite spot. It earned a respectable mid-score: beautiful setting, sentimental value, but points lost because the room was technically available… yet mysteriously unviewable. Jan’s verdict? A classic “YTS” moment

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Meanwhile and not to forget Jan but to think of something she’d laugh at :

I had a call from a Liverpool number. Jan hails from the Wirral, but Liverpool being close, I thought it must be a relative or friend. Not quite hearing it I confirmed my name and I was offered ‘kitchen appliances ‘ no no I said I don’t need any at all. I am renting. I have no kitchen of my own. No no the voice replied CONTINENCE appliances ! Oops.

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In a baffling new twist of NHS bureaucracy, the once straightforward process of ordering catheters—supplier to GP, done—is now tangled in an extra layer of admin spaghetti. Instead of contacting the specialist supplier directly for GP sign-off, you now receive a call from an unknown Liverpool number asking if you’d like to reorder. If you say yes, you must go through them. They then contact the supplier. The supplier contacts the GP. And eventually, catheters arrive.

Efficiency? Not quite. Jan would’ve called it what it is: “YTS-level nonsense.”

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As for the MRI saga with a nod to Victoria Wood’s iconic Two Soups—because if we’re going to endure NHS absurdity, we might as well do it with a laugh:

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The ping-pong email war with UCLH rages on. I’m still waiting for an appointment to discuss my MRI results, but apparently Mr Dipstick (whose name they can’t even spell correctly) is on leave. So no appointment, no results—just a volley of increasingly surreal emails.

It’s reached the point where I half expect a waitress to shuffle in, peer over her glasses, and announce:
“Two soups.” Jan could mimic that!

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Physio for the knee has been brilliant—not just for the actual therapy, but for the laughter, the stories, and the kind of emotional reset you don’t expect from a consulting room. She’s sharp, intuitive, and genuinely hilarious.

I’ve now been officially discharged, though the receptionist confessed she’s never heard so much laughter coming from a treatment room. Apparently, we raised the decibel levels and the spirits.

Oh, and the knee? It’s good as new!. Functioning whoop

As for Mrs Physio’s parting words: “With a life as crazy as yours, I reckon you’ll be back soon.”
oops.

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Jaw surgery now maybe October. Eek.

Onwards we go.

Thinking of what I’m going to say at Jan’s farewell I found this :

Life’s not fair, is it? Some of us drink champagne in the fast lane, and some of us eat our sandwiches by the loose chippings on the A597.

Victoria Wood .

The sketch from BBC