So having convinced the hospice that W's pain really does need sorting out, it was arranged that
he would be re-admitted to the hospice later in the week.
W is ahead of the game though. Yesterday morning saw him translucent, shaking and in more pain that ever before. He had finished his 24 hour allotment of diamorphine in 12 hours. A series of calls to the hospice, and our excellent GP meant that he was re-admitted to the hospice with immediate effect.

The trouble is W doesn't want to go to the hospice; since getting his intrathecal he has the notion that his next re-admission will be his last one. He's in no rush to get to the hospice thanks.
I have the opposite notion. With him folded into the front seat of the Mazda, I'm breaking all speed limits to get him to the hospice before the painkillers wear off completely; before he does that scary shaking and hallucinating thing.

W is insistent that there is no rush to get to the hospice. He says we should be slowing down to listen better to the CD he's started playing.

I'm arguing that you can't slow down to listen to Bruce Springsteen - dammit, we're "...Sprung from cages out on highway 9, Chrome wheeled, fuel injected and steppin out over the line..
..tramps like us, baby we were born to ru-u-un..."

I can't do Bruce at speeds appropriate to road conditions...
And anyhoots, why the sudden liking for Bruce Springsteen now? He always hated him.

No, there's one good song Bruce did, but he can't remember what it was...

So we slow down on the way to the hospice, and W put on Darkness on the Edge of Town, and for some reason, even at sedate speeds, it worked to lift the mood. Because Bruce is cheese. Pure cheese and ham sliced thick.

Three hours later though, when I got back to the car to go home alone, it was just Bruce and me....and it's not funny, it's not funny at all howling your eyes out to a song as tacky as "Badlands"