Crise de coeur
A person came to live in the close's dustbins the other week. Very Christmassy – doubt it was a pregnant virgin but we never got to see the occupant. A note was left for them telling them it wasn't safe to live there and they seem to have moved on. They had stuffed old newspaper paper into the slats of the door to keep out the cold.
Last Monday I decided I was in the middle of a heart attack and called out the ambulance. I felt a bit silly doing it but the ambulance people were very reassuring. To my surprise they actually took me to hospital and worse the doctor wanted me in over night and I had an IV thing plonked into the back of my hands. I didn't get out until 3pm the next day.
My fellow patients were a bit of a pain. I wondered if one of the disembodied voices I heard during the night was the person who had just moved on from our dustbins.
There was another who I was convinced was faking his moans and groans. R smuggled in a slice of pizza. Although he didn't see the source of the smell he was soon on his feet hassling the staff for supper. “I smell food” he said “I haven't eaten for two days” “Why haven't you?” the nurse asked. He didn't answer.
Another bloke turned up at 5am under police escort. Various doctors attempted to ascertain what he had taken – there were concerned mutters about opiates. The next morning the doctor did her rounds and had a jolly chat with him about the pills cocaine and litre and a half of Jack Daniels he had drunk. When she got to me she asked how much I was drinking. I had briefly discussed the indeterminate liver problem. “Around the limit” I said “21 units a week” - she hit the roof and gave me the third degree – “You should be drinking 1-2 units a week at the most” she screeched. Oh well. How much is a unit now?