Went to "Franga" (Frankston) for the weekend.

All was going well until Saturday afternoon.

My not-so-better half and I had made it in time for a late dinner with mum at an iconic Chinese restaurant, Ling Wah, and on Saturday we left her alone and had a lovely day trip to Phillip Island.

It was on our return that things went pear-shaped.

We pulled into the drive to find mum on the verandah, clutching her stomach, and asking for a lift to the local bulk billing medical centre.

I duly loaded mum into the car, while another person, grrr, "minded" the house and the television, and after an hour's wait we were told to "take two Panadeine Forte" and call in the morning.

Back home, despite the medication, the pain was clearly worsening.

A trip to Frankston Hospital's emergency ward seemed inevitable which, you know, if it was Daylesford Hospital, would be fine.

Been there a few times, for various complaints, and you go straight in, get seen by caring nurses, and then a doctor just seems to arrive _ and then you go home.

Mmm. Frankston Hospital is a tad different.

Sit in the waiting room for hours, get admitted into the emergency ward, lie on a bed, or worse a trolley parked up against the nurses' station _ while you wonder if there are actually any nurses involved in the whole process, don't see any doctors, get so desperate you ask passing

cleaners for medical advice, and then you check yourself out because you can't even get a simple painkiller.

Okay, okay, clearly I have had a few bad experiences and am a little tainted.

Anyway, somehow, and I don't know how _ there were a few frantic calls from my husband and I will be forever grateful, and even forgave the previous television watching experience _ we managed to get mum into a private hospital where she was given morphine and had a decent

night's sleep.

The next day she was back home with a possible gall bladder problem.

So, not quite the weekend I imagined but I hear that this is a common occurrence for people my age.