On the Importance of Hydration
Waking up on crumpled bedsheets, Nick reached up for the pint of water. It’s morning, at least by his body’s standards, though in the kitchen I am stir-frying rice for lunch. The water is necessary - not only did he go out last night, but he also came back this morning, fairly uncertain on his feet. He pulls out an A-Team DVD from the shelf (accessible from the bed), plugs in his laptop (also accessible from the bed), takes five pills, and then gets to the serious business of waking his brain up by watching poor actors jumping out of jeeps.
One hideously-carpeted and mismatched-sofa’d room over, I turn the gas ring off. Although it’s a large kitchen, with a family sized table in the middle, we tend to eat in the living room. This is partially for TV dinner reasons - that’s where the TV is to be found for sure. It’s also partially because, with 7 of us in the place, the kitchen can get a bit crowded quickly. My Saturday morning had consisted of building a giant Pacman out of triangles, and animating him programmatically, and so I relax in front of the news and eat my rice.
Nick emerges, pitying the fool, and goes to make the breakfast of Christmas-loving student champions: mince pies and tea. He loves Christmas. The Christmas songs go on around September, and the mince pies become the snack of choice as soon as they are available. It’s strange to me to have this kind of prolonged focus on the one holiday. Where I grew up, you had Hallowe’en followed by Thanksgiving, leaving Christmas as a more contained beast (and at least in my family, with more rice than I typically see with my University friends). Nick looks at me, and I look at him. We nod, and I get up silently and turn on the Playstation 2.
The fact that I’m fighting orcs in a house at University with a guy I went to school with is somewhat surprising, given my multi-geographical upbringing. The other 5 members of our household - all female - are from my friendship group in my Halls of Residence. We needed an extra person for the house, and I was happy to suggest one. Whilst clearing a lake of some gold, we both grumble about our GP surgery. Well, to be precise, Nick grumbles.
In a sense, it couldn’t be more convenient for us. In the time it’s taken you to read this, I could have walked back and forth to the surgery, and retrieved a piece of shining armor from that poison dragon. However, as a diabetic of good standing, I have a medical exemption certificate. This means that not only do I get regular repeat prescriptions of life saving insulin, I get them for free. Nick doesn’t get his prescriptions for free. He pays a yearly flat rate instead. Thus my hot cross bun stomached friend (they are pretty scars), who rattles with immuno-suppressents when you shake him, and is rather closely attached to his mother’s kidney, moans.
“Still,” he says as we decapitate a wyvern, “when you start losing your kidney function and I start losing my pancreas, at least we’ll both have free medication.”
I think about this for a second.
“So? I already get free medication - you’re the one ranting at the NHS.”
“Yeah, but when you have a borrowed kidney like me, you’ll have more use for the free meds. Actually if you want to feel the benefit now, how about lending me one of your kidneys, before you ruin it?”
I pause the game, and give him a bemused look.
“Remind me why I invited you into this house?”
“A friend in need…”
“-doesn’t need my kidney more than me.”
“Suit yourself.”
