Garston treatment centre

First physio session today at a local centre I managed to get transferred to as it's quite a trek to Whiston each time. Unfortunately the therapist, who to my ageing jaundiced eyes looked prepubescent, decided to start from the beginning as if I'd just broken my leg rather than a year ago. Jon at Whiston had me doing great things with wobble boards, but this new one has told me to practise standing on one foot a few times a day for 3 weeks. Maybe walking on it all the time doesn't count. This building used to be a lovely old Victorian hospital, but has recently been demolished and expensively rebuilt (in a deprived area, as seen through the window) as an ugly modern box disguised by lots of metallic plates. It's lovely and bright and airy inside but feels like sitting in one of those disposable tinfoil turkey roasting trays. I had a strange encounter in the lift with an eccentric elderly gent dressed like Quentin Crisp, who claimed to have recently married a young Taiwanese beauty. Apparently in flagrente a main artery in his leg blew and blood sprayed the walls and ceiling. I quickly beat a nauseous retreat, leaving him repeating the story to a couple of old dears who had unsuspectingly just got in the lift...