Aargh!

My sister's husband is in hospital, and with the junior doctor's strike* joined-up care seems to have become an alien concept. There's a pre-agreed treatment if this side-effect comes up, complicated by it being split between two departments in two hospitals in two different cities, and no one on the ground seems to be aware of it, so she's headed into the hospital to bang heads together (hopefully not literally, but I did point out the matron as a potential escalation route independent of which doctors are around, and she reminded me we did get a result going that way after my Dad's stroke).

* I don't blame the doctors, I blame the bloody Tories.

I'm sorry, I can't understand your accent ... oh!

 I had a phonecall earlier and I was having trouble understanding what was being said. Then it suddenly clicked that it was a Geordie accent over a poor line, not a heavy Indian accent, and everything suddenly made sense.

So, I completely failed to recognise my own native accent. Whoops!

(It didn't help that it wasn't a call I was expecting, though once I could figure out what was being said I instantly understood what it was about).