Mood Swings

The gesture is so unexpected, coming from someone clearly suffering as much as Leah is. Lying in her makeshift bed as she has been for two days, a look of pain etched on her face, silently spelling out the words that she refuses to say. Instead, all she does is smile and tell us that everything is alright. 

"It's just a little painful when I move," Leah tells us, except that she can't move at all. The tell-tale sign of one leg appearing shorter than the other leads us to the quick conclusion that she probably has a broken hip - fractured NOF - or neck of femur. I remember wondering in the very early days of my career what a "nekkafeema" was, only summoning up the courage to ask after I could no longer hide my embarrassment at not understanding yet another medical term. 

Leah's son, a tall, sickly looking man of fifty, appears almost as old as his mother and at first I mistook him for her husband. He tells us that she had fallen almost a week ago. Since then, the pain has gradually increased, her mobility slowly becoming more and more limited until eventually she could move no more. 

"It's taken us days to convince her that she needs help!" Leah's son explains. "Every time I've picked up the phone to call you, she screams at me that she'll die if she goes to hospital." 

The smile on Leah's face cracks a little, like an ice-cube in a glass of water, still present but a little changed, and the polished facade she has paraded for her family and initially for us no longer holds strong. "It does hurt, but not too bad. Are you sure I need to go to hospital?" I explain that there may be, in fact probably is, a fracture, but the only way to tell for sure is to have an X-ray done. The old, well-worn joke that I left my X-ray glasses in the other ambulance rejuvenates her smile a little. 

We're lucky. Leah is lying on a strong sheet that we can use to manoeuvre her. She has cushions for support all around and we use all of these to help move her as gently as possible onto the trolley bed. The first couple of attempts catch her off guard, despite my warning that she would feel a little pain when we helped her across. It makes her grab hold of the bed railing and prevents us from carrying her from her bed to ours. On the third attempt, I make her promise that she keeps her hands still and if necessary grabs hold of my arms. That way, at least we'll still be able to keep moving in the right direction. It's a successful move. We're grateful for the lift that means we only have to transfer her once, rather than into a chair and only then on to the bed. Fewer moves means less pain. 

At the hospital, Leah withdraws a little, showing the apprehension that her son had warned us about. "Are you leaving me here now?" 

"As soon as we make sure that you're as comfortable as possible on a hospital bed, then yes. It's the hospital's turn to take care of you." She doesn't seem too keen on the idea, but resigns herself to it nonetheless.

"I have to tell you something," she says once she's calmly lying on the hospital bed. She motions me to stand a little closer, as if she has some state secret to sell. Suddenly, Leah grabs my face and gives me a kiss on the cheek, loud enough for what seemed like the entire department to hear. My crewmate laughs hysterically, sensing and seeing my embarrassment as my face glows a warm shade of red. 

As the first call of the morning, I feel that that one moment sets me up for the day and set off out of the emergency department with a smile firmly planted on my face. 

On our second call, a man dies in front of us with his family all around, and there's nothing we can do. 

Bad Weather

Heading through the terrible weather towards the scene at right angles to the accident, the level of carnage looks all the more brutal. We're the third ambulance to arrive, adding to the sea of flashing lights. Rain drops look like tiny blue specks of light, reflecting the LEDs from all the emergency vehicles. Police cordon off each end of the street as fire crews start to cut through the mangled remains of what used to be a private car. The two occupants of the first car have managed to escape their wrecked former mode of transport and walked away with nothing but scratched arms and, for the driver at least, a bruised ego.

The other driver wasn't so lucky. Trapped in his seat by the crumpled front of the car, his head pinned back by the first paramedic on scene, all Terry wanted to do was move. One quick glance and I realised that it wasn't going to be a simple question of taking the roof off and dragging him out. There would have to be pieces of metal bent against their natural direction, some cut away all together, before we could even begin to think about getting him out of the car. 

And all the while, the rain continues to fall. 

"You must be getting soaked out there!" said Terry, talking through a misty oxygen mask. 

"Drenched to my core, but I'll worry about that later." 

At least he was in fairly good spirits. 

"Have you got any pain anywhere?" 

"Just my legs, but that's probably because they're wearing part of the engine." 

"No pins and needles, no pain anywhere else?"

"Nope. Nothing at all." 

"That's good. Can you move your toes for me?" 

Terry tells me that he's following my instructions, but his toes don't seem to move. Maybe I just can't see properly, but in any case, there's not much I can do about it.

"OK, we'll check on you a bit more once we've got you out of there." 

It took almost two hours of the fire brigade cutting, stretching and bending metal to get Terry free. In the meantime, we did what we could; gave him fluids and pain relief to keep him stable and comfortable. He finally appeared, borne out of his car on a flat, rigid rescue board. One look at his legs was all it took to see that they were both broken below the knee. 

"Can I just see the car before you take me away?" 

"Well, not really. It's the other side of the ambulance and you're now joining the wet-suit brigade. Besides, I think you need to get to hospital." 

Terry looked disappointed. 

"I'll tell you what - let's get you inside and out of this tropical downpour, and I'll go and take a photo for you on my phone." 

"Sounds like a plan to me!" 

We moved the trolley inside, turn the heating onto the highest level and my crew mate checked him out from top to toe again. I ran outside into the pouring rain, took a photograph as promised, and ran back inside into the dry.

"So, you sure you want to see this?" 

"You bet. Might as well have nightmares about something I've seen, rather than something I've imagined." 

"Alright then, here you go." 

With his head strapped to the board and stuck between two head-blocks, only his eyes moved. 

"Well, it's taken me twenty years!"

"First accident in twenty years?" 

"No. Third actually." 

"So what's taken you twenty years?" 

"Well, I've always wanted a convertible. I just thought I'd pick better weather to put the roof down." 

The Keys to the Asylum

The council estate is a maze of rat-runs, dead end roads and multi-storey buildings. There's no logic to the numbering, and most of the buildings are unnamed, just to make it all that more exciting. The computer must know something I don't, as I turn into yet another alley and a disembodied voice from the sat-nav announces You have arrived. I drive around in circles, zooming in on the digital map trying to locate the tiny alleyway that was given as the address I was looking for, and try to find the man with the broken leg.

With no luck at finding the patient, I leave the blue lights flashing and give a couple of blasts on the siren. It's not too late at night, but still late enough that some of the neighbours, particularly children, may have been tucked up for the night. A few minutes later the crew follows me in to the multi-tentacled cul-de-sac. 

"No idea where this alley is, and no-one's come to find me." 

"We went up the other way first, no sign there either." 

After a few more minutes of searching up and down the same tiny roads, a figure appears at the top of a fire escape. "Oy! He's up here! Come on! Hurry up! What took you so long?" 

Not lying half dead in an alleyway then, and three flights of stairs up, probably not nursing a broken leg either. Nevertheless, between the three of us, we take all the kit we might need in case the call really is all it was stated to be, including a carry chair. As we reach the top of the stairs, Neil is sitting on a picnic box, his legs intact but his left arm bowed right in the middle of where it should be straight.

"How'd you do that then?"

His first words engulfed us all in a haze of alcoholic breath.

"Fell over, didn't I? Down that stupid alley. I told 'em someone was gonna get hurt, didn' think it'd be me now, did I?!"

We stabilised his arm in a splint and cleaned up a wound that he'd opened up on his eyebrow. It looked like it was an old scab that had opened up again.

"Do you fall often?"

"Nah, not really. Just a bit unlucky the last couple of weeks."

"How much have you had to drink tonight, Neil?"

"Oh, not much. Two, three pints maybe."

"Any other medical problems?"

"Yeah. My liver's knackered. They might have to replace it soon. 'Swhat the docs said, anyway."

"How'd that happen?"

"Well, I used to be an alcoholic. Not any more now though. Now I only have a couple of drinks a night, you know, when I'm at work."

"You used to be an alcoholic, but you're still drinking?" Then it hit me. "Hang on a minute. You drink at work?"

"Yeah. Course! There's got to be some perks to my job."

"Why, what do you do?"

"I'm a mixologist."

Oh. He's got an ology. "A what?"

"A mixologist. I mix all the cocktails at the bar."

"You're an alcoholic, and you work in a bar?"

"You bet. Does it get any better?"

"Well, your arm says it could probably get a lot worse." 

The Other Leg

Late evening in the city, where another weekend heads to a close as the world prepares to face another Monday morning. There's a definite chill in the air, a disappointing summer fizzling out as the nights begin to draw in, yet all around people are spilling out of pubs and clubs wearing no more than the bare essentials. The street sweepers are out in force, one of them earning a torrent of verbal abuse for daring to complain to yet another youth for throwing an empty cup on the floor.

Rash and his friends walk away laughing, alcohol and bravado fueling yet more antics until, suddenly, he loses his footing on the edge of the kerb. His leg twists, snaps and gives way, and he crumples in a heap on the floor. The street sweeper sees it happen, yells something about karma and walks away to continue his never-ending litter hunt. 

We're dealing with a drunk no more than ten paces away, another victim of just having a good time and she doesn't usually get like this. Each of us, Dean and I, has one eye on our patient making sure we don't get covered in vomit, and another on the altercation, looking for signs of a fight breaking out. When Rash falls, we're close enough that we see his leg change direction and clearly hear the crack in the bone. 

"Stay there!" I shout. "We're coming." Dean calls for help, asking for a second ambulance.

Unable to move even if he wanted to, Rash lies on the ground screaming in pain. Two police officers patrolling the area hear the noise, which even in the bustling surroundings was out of the ordinary, and come to investigate. The bad timing on their part means they get to stay with the vomiting drunk and her overly exuberant friend.

Dean brings the trolley bed and a splint over, the need to see the injury first seeming superfluous having witnessed the noise it made. Nevertheless, a pair of shears always beats a pair of jeans in the trauma version of "rock, paper, scissors" (where the rock or paper are any item of clothing which may be hiding any part of the anatomy that needs to be viewed directly, in a hurry and with a minimum of movement), and seconds later Rash sees his leg for the first time since getting dressed earlier in the evening. He looks down at his ankle, and instantly looks away.

"Do you think it's broken?" It's more of a last gasp attempt at denying what he already knows than a real question.

"Well, I think the fact that your foot is facing the wrong way and there are two bones sticking out of your ankle would probably confirm that." Ten paces away, as if on cue, our drunken patient vomits for the umpteenth time. One of the police officers sends us a grateful stare, all the more grateful now that another ambulance has arrived to deal with her.

We load Rash into the ambulance, dose him up with some pain relief, and straighten his leg out as much as possible before heading to the nearest hospital. The screams of pain as we pull his leg straight subside once his foots faces front again, entonox and morphine leaving him a little dazed. When I ask his date of birth, he hesitates, looking at his friend for guidance. A shrug of the shoulders was the only reply.

"How old are you Rash?"

"Nineteen."

"And what's your date of birth?"

He tells me a day and a month without hesitation, but when it comes to the year, all he could say was "Ummm..."

"OK, so how old are you really?"

"Sixteen. And a half." And a half. Of course. That makes all the difference.

"And why didn't you want us to know that?"

"I didn't want those coppers to arrest me again. You know, for being drunk under age and all that."

"What do you mean arrest you again?"

"Well, I've already been arrested five times before. I was twelve the first time!" He high-fives his friend, seemingly proud of his criminal record.

"Twelve? What were you arrested for at twelve?"

"Fighting!" Another laugh, and another high-five.

"And you were twelve?"

"Yeah man. I've still got the scars now!"

"And you're proud of that?"

"Well, yeah, why not? But not as proud as I am of something else." He shoots his friend a knowing look, and they both smile.

"What's that, Rash?"

He pulls up his other trouser leg and proudly shows off his electronic tag. "Got this last month, didn't I! All my mates want one now, it's, like, so cool!"

"You know that you'll probably get nicked now anyway, out after what I presume is your curfew time?"

"Oh what? Even if I'm in hospital? Pull the other one, yeah?"

"I already did." 

Two Feet

The rain is pouring down and I can't help but step across some muddy grass to get to the front door. I ring the doorbell and am thankful when it only takes a few seconds for Wendy to open the door - a torrential downpour is not my favourite choice of climate. As she pushes the door outwards, she looks back into the house and shouts. 

"They're here!" 

I wipe my feet and as I walk in I accidentally catch the strap of the bag on the door handle. 

"Can't your mate help you carry any of that?" 

"It's just me for now. There'll be another ambulance along soon enough." 

"Well, I don't know how you're going to get him off the floor on your own! I mean, he's been there for hours, and I've tried all I can do. He just keeps shouting at me that it hurts!" 

"Let's have a look and see. If I can help him on my own, then we'll do that. If not, I'll make sure he's comfortable, and we'll wait for a couple more pairs of hands." 

Clive's lying flat on his back, his legs in the kitchen, whilst his head and torso are out in the narrow corridor. It's rarely that these falls occur somewhere simple, and I have no choice but to step over him repeatedly, assessing for injuries and vital signs. 

"As long as I lie still," Clive's voice has a sing-song quality to it, "I really don't feel that ill. But if I try to get up or move, well, that's a different kettle of fish altogether." 

"Where's the pain?"

"In my left hip. I've already had the right one replaced, and I expect I've got the same treatment coming up now on the other side." There's no way I can move him on my own, and I've just been helpfully advised that the nearest crew may as well be in France. 

"The boss tells me you've been down here for hours. What time did you fall?"

"Oh, no. I only fell about ten minutes before she called you. She gets a little confused at times." He whispers the last bit, hoping not to upset his wife of more than fifty years. 

"I heard that!" She yells, out of sight, but clearly not out of earshot. "I don't get confused, thank you. Just forgetful!" 

Clive beckons me nearer. "Forgetful then, but selectively good hearing too."

"OY!"

"Told you!"

The crew arrive over half an hour later. In the meantime Clive's had all the pain relief I can safely give him, any minor wounds have been bandaged and I've strapped his legs together to try to take some of the strain off his hips. It takes about the same time again to manoeuvre a scoop stretcher into place to try to get him out the house. 

We split the scoop in two, separating the hinges at each end and gently move each side underneath him. We need to keep him as straight as possible to avoid moving his hip, but there's no way the now rigid stretcher will make the turn around the tight corner and into the narrow corridor. We try moving further into the kitchen to get a different angle, then try again to move in the opposite direction. The only success we have is in leaving dark footprints on the cream carpet. 

"I'm sorry, Clive, but there's nothing for it. We're going to have to stand you up. But don't worry, we'll keep you on this stretcher, strapped in, so you won't actually be standing at all. Is that all alright with you?" 

"No problem. Just do what you have to do." 

We add some extra straps for support, forming a "figure-8" around his feet and the bottom of the scoop, ensuring that when we stand him up, he won't move anywhere. 

"You can close your eyes if you like, it's probably a bit of weird sensation rising like a zombie." 

"With all that stuff you've given me, I feel like a zombie anyway!"

"Ah. That'll be the morphine. Told you it was good stuff." 

"You weren't kidding!"

After more to-ing and fro-ing, furniture moving and a few more wet, muddy footprints on the carpet, we finally manage to get Clive out to the ambulance and make sure he's as comfortable as possible for the journey. His wife joins him, and just before I shut the doors, I apologise. 

"Sorry about the footprints. If there's a next time, which I hope there isn't, I'll come in barefoot. Failing that, you could try calling when it's sunny instead." 

"Don't worry about it," says Clive. "Hopefully the next set of mucky footprints on there will be when I'm back on my own two feet." 

Greenpeace

Once again, we stand, trolley and patient between us, and we wait. The department is manic. Patients in every cubicle, trolleys in the corridors, nurses rushed off their feet, porters running backwards and forwards to x-ray and the wards, reception staff fending off the masses, and doctors sitting down drinking coffee. (Cheap shot, I know. But it made you smile, right? Unless of course, you're a doctor. And I don't mean it really...)

Jenny, one of our favourite sisters is in charge tonight. Even in the heat of a Saturday night A&E battle she remains composed and calm. A tap on the shoulder and a sheepish "Sorry, we've got nothing for a while!" at least acknowledges our presence, and lets us know that we haven't been forgotten. Not that it's easy to ignore us, both six-foot tall and dressed in blood-hiding green. Her only downfall is her gullibility, especially when it's busy.

Derek, our patient, well into his late seventies, must have been a stand-up comedian in a previous life. From the minute we met him and his probably broken hip, we were in fits of laughter, ranging from giggles to full blown hysterics. The added bonus of giving him some entonox and morphine to help relieve the pain only made matters worse. Trying to settle down once we'd stepped inside the hospital was a little like telling a kid who's having a mad half hour in the evening to calm down and go to bed.

As we stood in the middle of the department, we had time to hatch a plan and had the routine rehearsed to perfection. All it would take was a little composure - easier said than done.

"I'm sorry boys, and you sir," Jenny said as she turned to the patient, "but we're just trying to shift some people from here. We should have half a dozen spaces within ten minutes. I'll be back then and we'll sort you out."

"No problem!" I said, "I'm sure Derek won't run off anywhere in the meantime."

Composure? Lost. Awful joke, I know, but when you've already got the giggles, it doesn't take much. 

Jenny eyed us suspiciously, but went back to her duties and clearing the department. We watched as one by one she kept her promise. Some went up to the wards, others sent on their way with boxes of antibiotics or pain killers, and whilst it all happened, I had the chance to finish writing my paperwork.

Calm seemed to return. When a patient leaves A&E, whatever their destination, their entourage leaves with them, so it's not just one person leaving. Six patients sent on their way can easily mean twenty people exiting stage left. The decibel volume drops noticeably and the overall chaos seems to dissipate, if only a little.

Only five minutes later than the promised ten, Jenny comes back to us.

"Right, now where were we?"

"Morning Jenny. This is Derek. He's a Greenpeace activi..."

"You DO KNOW about Greenpeace, don't you?" Derek's interruption was perfectly timed.

Jenny looks momentarily taken aback, but maintains composure.

"I do know about them, yes. Let me find out what the problem is, Derek, and then we can discuss it later."

"OK."

"As I was saying, Derek was on a protest at the local building site. Apparently they're building on what he says should be left as a nature reserve, so he decided he would start a one man protest. Up a huge crane."

"You were where?" Jenny asks.

"Up a crane. They can't use the damn thing if I'm sitting half way up it!" Derek's performance was so convincing, even I was starting to buy it.

"Right."

"Anyway, we were asked by the police to be on standby, should anything go wrong, whilst they sent some climbers up to bring Derek down. As they neared the bottom of the crane, Derek decided to jump about two metres, fell onto the grou..."

"I didn't fall!" He looked genuinely angry. "Those damned coppers brought me down!"

"Either way, he landed quite heavily, and we think he might have broken his hip. The rest of his observations are fine, and he's normally fit as a fiddle."

"Right." Jenny looked a little puzzled, had a quick look at the side of the paperwork that has all the observations but none of the story, and allocated us a bed without any further questions. "I'll help you get him across."

Derek took a few more deep breaths on the entonox as we lay him almost flat in order to slide him onto the hospital bed.

"We'll have you over in seconds, you won't even know it's happening."

"OK, just do it."

I placed the paperwork on the tray at the edge of the bed, and between us we moved Derek onto the slightly more comfortable hospital trolley. We had to take our cylinder of entonox back, so before we did, I went to find a hospital supply rather than leave him without. By the time I came back, Jenny was reading the paperwork. Story side this time, and tapping her foot on the floor.

She read about Derek's fall at home. How he'd been on the way back from the toilet and slipped. How we got him down the flight of stairs, strapped onto a board and dosed up on laughing gas.

"Assaulted by coppers, huh?" She glared.

"Stuck up a crane, huh?" A hint of a smile.

"Greenpeace, huh?" We knew we'd won.

"You sir, shouldn't help these clowns to get away with this!" Jenny shook her head in disbelief. "You two, just you wait! I'll get you back yet! In the meantime," she paused, "thank you for cheering up a mad evening."

We laughed, all of us. Derek and Jenny included.

"Excuse me, nurse. Can I ask you just one question?" Derek suddenly looked serious again.

"Of course you can."

"Do you really know anything about Greenpeace?"

Two green-uniformed men turned and ran, giggling away like school kids.

Destiny

The fact that it's a regular occurrence doesn't make it any more comfortable. At least once a month, there's a call into the Custody Suite at one of the local police stations. The word "suite" belies the stark reality of concrete boxes with no more than a tiny window and an open toilet. The stench of both the current resident and all those who had spent miserable hours in the grey, gloomy cells is often overwhelming, sometimes bearable, but never pleasant. Calls to this place are more often than not an attempt to fake an illness or injury in order to end hours claustrophobic hell. Five minutes is more than enough for me. 

This time the call was for leg pain, post fall.

A police van was parked in the middle of the car park, just by the entrance to the cells. There was some yelling from the van, an incoherent babble about police brutality. Threats and promises of revenge, complaints about treatment and talk of lawyers all doing nothing to rattle the officers standing outside. I thought to myself that he'll probably be our next customer, when he also gets bored of the solitude. Between the van and the building is a wire cage, just large enough for a prisoner and two accompanying officers, leading to the heavy blue door with the one-way latch. We step in to the wire cube, the crew and I, and as we are about to enter the building itself, a call from the van spins us round. 

"He's in here!" I'm thankful not to have to step back into the cells. 

We walk back, and a sergeant quickly fills us in on events. 

"We nicked him for shoplifting. He saw us coming, ran for about a mile, and after running down something like forty stairs, he fell over a simple kerb. Ironic really." The sergeant couldn't hide the smile. "He kept going for another hundred yards, then fell to the floor. Once we got hold of him, he walked to the van, assisted by these gentlemen, and only started screaming about his leg as we pulled into here. Probably the usual trick, but he won't let us move him, and every time we try, he screams like a woman in labour!" 

Rob's still in the back of the police van, shut in the cage that will make a custody cell seem like a penthouse. As soon as the van doors open, his rants become louder and he starts to spit at the officers. As well as the metal housing, the cage is surrounded by perspex, so the spit just rolls down the plastic and onto the floor. One of the officers shouts at him. 

"We've got the ambulance here for your leg. Now shut up, calm down, and stop behaving like an idiot, and then we'll let the crew look at you!" 

A different person answer from inside. 

"Yes, sir." His tone was suddenly calm, he sat bolt upright, and waited for the cage door to be opened. Three officers stood by the door, just in case he ran. 

"Where do you think I'm gonna go?" He laughed. "Have you seen my leg?"

The police stood back, and let us in. 

"A word of warning." I said to Rob, taking a wary step forwards. "You spit at me, and police witnesses or not, I'll knock you out!" I've never knocked anyone out, but if anything's likely to bring me close, it'll be a spitter.

"No way, sir. I'd never do that to you guys. I respect you too much!" The alcohol on his breath could have knocked out a rhino at a hundred paces, and I was concerned that intoxicated, he'd soon change his behaviour again. 

"Right, well you make sure you remember that then." 

Rob smiled and rested his head back on the wall of the van. As we tried to remove his boot, Rob screamed in agony, even with all the alcohol on board. A pair of shears, a lot of entonox, a touch of morphine, and some choice words from Rob, and we could finally see the problem. Both bones of his lower leg were visible through the skin, the sharp edges of a traumatic fracture making easy work of the thin flesh. How he walked anywhere after his fall was a miracle. 

Once the pain killers joined the alcohol, Rob was calm enough for us to pull his leg straighter, splint it and move him to the ambulance. I didn't dare risk much more of the morphine, not wanting to take the gamble of stopping Rob's breathing all together, so I handed him back the entonox. 

"The police told me that you were screaming like a woman in labour. So here's the stuff they give them, should you need it." 

"Thanks," he answered, and took a large, deep breath on the gas. 

He refused to give us too many details. He either didn't want to give us an address, or genuinely didn't have one. He gave his date of birth as the 31st of September. 

"There isn't a 31st of September!" said one of the crew. 

"There was in the year I was born. It was a double leap year." After we all laughed, he clammed up completely, until we opened the doors at the hospital, ready to take the trolley off the back. 

"It's not my fault that I steal, you know," he started, "it's my parents'. Just look at the name they gave me! I mean, what do they expect if they call me Rob?" 

"Surely it's short for Robert?" asked the accompanying officer. 

"Well it is, but they've always called me Rob. It's obviously my destiny." 

"Not with that leg it isn't", mumbled the officer as we stepped out of the cold air and into the hospital. 

Darkness

The instant the doorbell rings, a sharp bark pierces through the biting wind, a pitter-patter of paws runs towards the front door and starts trying to scratch its way out.

"Hold on one minute," calls a male voice, "I'll just put the dog away." Just above the sign warning would-be intruders of the presence of a menacing dog is another, more welcoming sign - Patterson Plaza. We wait outside as we hear the barks fade, and at the sound of a door shutting somewhere in the house, they turn into a distant, sad whimper.

Eventually he returns and opens the door to let us in. "She's in the back room, is Ada. You'd better go ahead of me, I'm a bit slow on the old pegs! Second door on the right. But just be careful, she's right behind the door!"

We peek round to see Ada propped up against a wall, using a glass-fronted unit for support. One of the glass panels is shattered, shards covering the floor and sparkling in the dull amber light. A wound in the back of her head has left her silvery hair tinged with a streak of red.

"I bet I look a right sight!" Ada looks up from her precarious seat on the floor to see two 6-foot plus green aliens in her lounge. The look is almost child-like, a stare upwards that slowly keeps going until reaching the top of the view.

"You look fine Ada, us red-heads must stick together, so we'll make a good job of looking after you." She laughs. "Not much left of your red hair, is there?"

"You noticed, huh?" I kneel down beside her. Apart from the impoliteness of standing bearing over a patient, it also means she no longer has to crane her neck just to speak to us. "Let's get you patched up shall we?"

The shuffling footsteps that had followed us down the corridor finally approached, and Ada's husband joined us in the room. "Mind the luggage, Mr Patterson, it's taken over your lounge a little."

"Oh, I'm alright. And call me Derek! None of this Mr Patterson stuff - you're not my bank manager!" Stern, but friendly and sincere. We check Ada for other injuries and find that she's probably fractured her hip. Derek's warned us that she has a habit of falling, as she uses a zimmer frame to get around, but sometimes gets too frustrated and leaves it behind. When she does, she often tumbles to the floor.

"I've told her she has to use the frame, but will she listen to me? Of course not!" After giving her a glare, he rattles off her list of medications, tells us what each one is for, and how many of each she takes and at what time of the day. "I'll just go get the box and show them all to you, make sure I haven't forgotten any." Derek walks off in the direction of the kitchen.

"He's been looking after me like this for years, ever since the arthritis has stopped me getting around easily," Ada whispers, "but I know he can't go on like this. We're both getting too old. We've been looking into moving into a home together. It's not as simple as it sounds." In the time we've taken to bandage her head and stop it leaking, Derek has returned. Ada stops talking, perhaps not wanting to upset him.

"Right," says Derek, pointing out each of the medications in the box, "this is the one for blood pressure, this one for her heart, this one for the pain from her arthritis, and the big box is full of calcium tablets."

"Thank you, Derek." In the background, the sound of paws clawing away at a door are a constant reminder of the caged animal.

"What dog have you got?" I ask. My knowledge of dogs is limited. I know they have tails, four legs, and bark. And I know that I don't like them particularly. Owners' assurances that "Oh, he's the friendliest dog in the world, you don't need to worry about him," are often followed by a nip on the hand and a now apologetic owner sheepishly mumbling "Well, he's never done that before!" I'd rather not take the risk.

"He's a beautiful Labrador. Wouldn't hurt a fly." At least I know what a Labrador is.

"And who walks him?"

"Mostly I do," Derek answers, a little insulted I fear. "Sometimes, when our son's in town, he'll come and do it for us. But normally I take him to the shops once a day, you know, when I get the paper and a few odds and ends, and he's happy with that." Knowing the area, I realise that the shops are a good quarter of a mile away. "Helps keep me fit, too!"

In the meantime, we've given Ada some pain relief and prepared to move her onto our chair and out to the ambulance. I'd have preferred to keep her laying flat and not moving her hip, but it was an impossible idea, the tiny corridor and curved walls not allowing for a stretcher of any kind. The morphine would hopefully work its magic and prevent her from feeling any more pain.

"She'll want her dressing gown, if that's all right with you? I'll just go get it from upstairs."

"Why don't you give me directions, and I'll go for you. Don't need you running up and down for no reason."

"Right. Well it's up the stairs, first door, right in front of you. It's the light blue one, hanging on the back of the door. The dark blue one's mine, so don't bring that one, or I'll never hear the end of it. But just so you know, it's the room where I put the dog."

Just for once, I decide to be brave. "Don't worry, Derek. I'm sure he won't bite me just for taking a dressing gown. It's probably not his colour anyway!"

"Fine, then. I'll just make sure everything's locked up and switched off downstairs, then I'll join you in the ambulance."

We wheel Ada out wrapped in the ambulance-standard red blanket to keep her warm as well as safe. "Matches my hair now, doesn't it," she muses as she looks down at the crimson cover. Once she's safely on board and as comfortable as possible, I go back into the house, and up the stairs to retrieve the dressing gown. Not before a plea from Ada.

"Make sure you help Derek out when you come back, won't you? He's not so good outside without the dog."

"Of course I will. Don't you worry about anything. That's what we're here for." She relaxes back on the trolley and allows my crew mate to check her blood pressure again.

As I open the bedroom door, the dog is lying on the floor and looks up at me with what seem to be almost contemptuous eyes. "Sorry," I mumble, "we have to look after Ada first." I can't quite believe I'm apologising to a dog. I take the dressing gown, fold it in half over my arm and leave the room with the door slightly ajar. Hopefully if I show the dog a small sign of trust, he'll understand my intentions are only good ones.

I meet Derek at the bottom of the stairs. "Got it!" I tell him.

"You sure it's the light blue one, aren't you?" His question confuses me.

"As you can see, sir, it is indeed! And I got it without being eaten alive!" I try to put on a show of pride.

"Actually, I can't see it. I forget to tell people sometimes, sorry. It's been twenty-five years now." It's then that I see the dog's reins, reflective strips on the straps and bars, and a white cane sitting by the door. I think back to everything he's done. Clear descriptions and directions, knowledge of exactly where everything is, drugs in perfect order, looking after the dog, looking after us, looking after Ada.

And all in darkness.

"Come on Derek, let's get you out to the ambulance. There's a young lady in there asking after you."

His hand holds onto the crook of my arm, and we walk out together, leaving the dog to watch from the top of the stairs.

Safer

The patient we'd just dropped off at the hospital only became a patient when the police turned up. Far from being police brutality, it seems that they just seem to have an overwhelming effect on some people. Paulo had driven home from the pre-Christmas office drink, a warm up for the main event that was scheduled for mid-December. It was only supposed to be the planning meeting, but he decided to sample some of the drinks to help him decide what to make available for everyone else. Then he drove home. Well, about half way, before he met the kerb, burst a tyre and was stopped by a grass verge. A good Samaritan witnessed the incident, and as he drove past and kept going, he called for an ambulance. Paulo was uninjured, the crash and his escape a dichotomous result of his drunken state. The police turned up a few minutes later, and as soon as they said the magic words informing him of his arrest, Paulo collapsed.

Paulo fell to the ground, making sure he found somewhere soft to drop. His eyelids held tightly shut and hands making tight fists, he failed every test for unconsciousness known to any paramedic worth their salt. However, he still refused to open his eyes or speak, and therefore won the first round. The police had no choice but to send him to hospital, although rather than being let off by them, Paulo was accompanied all the way, and would be watched until he recovered from his mysterious ailment. Round two would be won by the police as soon as he woke up. Far from being sent home, Paulo would spend hours in A&E, and then more hours in a police cell. Round three would be up to the judge.

Having transported an officer and their quarry, we were then free to go back out on the road. We left the hospital, and half way back to station, saw a car veering across lanes, bouncing off the pavement, and showing a general disregard for any rules of the road. We called control and let them know that there was probably another drunk driver on the road and asked for police to attend before anyone was injured or worse. Following the car, we were given permission to use lights and sirens to see if that would help stop the driver, but both were completely ignored.

The car seemed to be accelerating away from us, and was heading directly for a line of traffic waiting at a set of lights. Assuming that our presence might be making the driver act more erratically and dangerously, we turned off the lights and sirens and slowed down. We waited for it to skirt around the line of cars, jump through the red light and across a busy junction. That wasn't even close to what happened.

The car didn't even brake. It slammed into the car at the back of the line and stopped dead, steam pouring out the hood seconds after impact. We pulled up behind the car, radioed in to let control know what had happened and requested another ambulance, as we'd probably have at least two patients. 

The blue van that had been stationary was shunted forwards a good distance right into the middle of the junction. Luckily the lights had changed, so there was no cross traffic and the car in front had already moved off, missing an impact by the thinnest of margins. The driver got out, and looking a little dazed, walked over to us cradling one arm in the other. Even from a distance we could see that he'd fractured his wrist. The police turned up at that point, and were tasked with babysitting him until we could assess the other driver.

The front of her car was half the size it should have been. She hadn't moved since the impact, and as we approached we could see that she was conscious, breathing, and seemingly uninjured. The expected smell of alcohol didn't materialise when we opened the door, although her speech was slurred, she was confused and her behaviour was erratic. Sure drunken signs, but lacking evidence, we carried out further checks. Within under a minute, we had the answer. As a police officer looked for physical clues, we searched for medical ones. A blood sugar check was all it took. Her sugar level had dropped to less than one (or eighteen for you Stateside persons). Most people I've seen with that level have been totally unconscious, and nowhere near a steering wheel. A few hundred drops of sugary water directly into her blood stream were enough to bring her back to reality, although not the one she remembered.

"What happened?"

"Well, you've had a hypo, and crashed your car. It seems that you've come out of it OK."

She took a moment to digest the information. A look of horror suddenly crossed her face. "What about the person I hit? Are they hurt?"

"Don't worry. They're on the way to hospital for a check-up." I didn't have the heart to tell her about the broken arm. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was having a meeting with some guy. I run an inn, and we were planning their Christmas do. He had a couple of drinks, maybe more than a couple, and I told him he probably shouldn't drive, but he went anyway. I hope he made it home in one piece! Maybe I should've taken my own advice too..." 

We asked about her medical history, whether she'd been eating regularly, all the other relevant questions for a diabetic whose blood sugar levels have dropped so low. She'd been doing everything right, so the reason remained unclear. There was still one thing we wanted to quiz her about.

"Do you remember the name of the person you met?" I couldn't believe the coincidence, and I didn't expect the answer. 

"Yeah. It was a foreign sounding name. Pablo I think." 

"Pablo? You sure?" 

She sat looking thoughtfully into the distance. "Oh. No it wasn't. It was Paulo. Not Pablo. Definitely Paulo." 

Two ambulance crew stared at each other in total silence, barely accepting the answer we'd just heard.

She broke the silence after a few seconds. 

"Instead of telling him to get a cab, maybe I should have asked him to drive me! It would probably have been much safer..."

Laughing Gas

As the nights draw in, the hours of darkness rise as the temperatures fall, and I find myself longing back to the long, warm, days of summer.

*****

A Sunday evening, towards the end of the school holidays, and the kids are making the best of the last of the late sunlight. The park is full of children, some accompanied, some not, and the sounds of the joys of the summer break fill the air. The park is a large expanse of green with a large play area in the middle, a few trees surround it giving sporadic shade, used mainly by the parents enjoying the respite whilst their children soaked up the freedom.

The sound of playing children is shattered by a scream.

A mother runs to her child.

An ambulance is called.

*****

We're greeted at the park gate by an anxious looking man wildly waving his arms. The air conditioning has failed, so the windows are wound down, and as we draw nearer, the sound of a distressed child can be clearly heard. Even from 200 metres away.

"He came down the slide Superman style", he starts, even before we've opened the doors.

"And then he just screamed. Now he can't move his arms." Suddenly the realisation dawns on him that if he wants us to treat the child, he needs to move away and let us get out.

The scream sounds even louder now we're out of the ambulance.

"Well, at least his airway's OK", says my crew mate, pointing out the obvious.

We grab our equipment and start to make our way to the playground.

Harrison sits on his mother's lap, sobbing and screaming intermittently, his pain seeming to make him shrink in his mother's arms to half the size of his nine years.

The description of the event leads us to check his neck first, then his arms, where we find no injury and no pain.

We hand Harrison the entonox and explain how it works. "This is a special gas to help with the pain. It might make you feel dizzy, and it might even make you laugh. That's why they call it laughing gas!"

I try to hand it to him, but he won't move either arm to reach for it, so we ask mum to hold the nozzle for him. After a few short moments, the anxious, pained look on his face eases a little, and he's able to speak for the first time and tell me where it hurts. I feel one collar-bone, and then the other, and find them both to be probably broken. No wonder then that Harrison won't move his arms.

Superman style, head first down the long slide, his arms out in front clearly meeting their Kryptonite in the form of the solid ground.

Harrison starts on the gas, and after about ten minutes, he's calm and relaxed enough to let us put one arm in a sling, as his mum cradles the other one. I check the gauge on the entonox to see that it has just about moved out of the green zone and into the long, colourless middle area. There's a long way to go before he reaches the nearly empty red section, and I doubt he'll ever get anywhere near it. I've never seen anyone other than a labouring woman come anywhere near to using a full cylinder of entonox.

Slowly and very gently we move him to the ambulance, the hiss of the cylinder punctuated by frequent yelps of pain as one or other arm moves even the smallest amount. Thinking about giving him something stronger for the pain, I ask Harrison's mother about any medical conditions he may have, and medications he takes, and any allergies.

"Yeah. He's allergic to morphine! We found that out two years ago when he fell of a trampoline and broke his leg."

Entonox it is then. The only needle for this kid is going to be the one on the cylinder gauge.

A few minutes into the journey, as Harrison drinks the elixir of pain-relief through an overgrown straw, he suddenly giggles.

"You OK, Harrison?"

"Of course I am!"

"Is the gas helping you then?"

He giggles again, on the verge of laughter, but too scared in case it hurts. "It's much better thank you. Can I go home now?"

Mother and medics laugh instead. "Not right now. You need to go to hospital to see what they're going to do to fix you."

"OK", he says, closes his eyes, and goes back to concentrating on the gas. I fill in the paperwork, explain to Harrison's mum what I think has happened and what will possibly happen after we leave them at hospital, and her husband follows behind in the car, refusing to let us out of his sight.

Harrison is relaxed, pain still evident as we hit the unavoidable pot-hole or two, but he seems a lot more care free about it. The cylinder hits the red zone just as we're pulling into the hospital. It'll leave us just enough to get him into the department.

"This may hurt a little as we get you off the ambulance, but we'll be as gentle we can, OK?"

"OK! Let's go!"

We unhook the trolley from its securing clasp on the floor, and get ready to move.

"Happy, Harrison?"

"Very happy", he says. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure!"

"Do you know what to do when you're happy?"

"Errr, clap your hands? But I don't think that'll be a good idea for you right now!"

"I know that", he answers back, with a voice that's a kid's way of saying I'm not stupid, y'know!

And so, drunk on a whole bottle of entonox, he sings his way off the ambulance and into the children's department.

"If you're happy and you know it, clap your feet!"

Laughing gas indeed, except it worked on everyone.

At Home

And so, with no pomp or circumstance whatsoever, it came to an end. A mundane call just before six o'clock in the morning, a simple handover to the crew, and a slightly solemn and very lonely drive back to station. I don't know what I was expecting or hoping for.

Almost five years ago, I started it for the first time. It lasted 6 months, and I hated almost every minute of it. I stuck at it because it was challenging and different, but I still couldn't stand it. At the end of the allocated half-dozen moons, you couldn't see me for dust in my haste to get away. Maybe I was just too young and inexperienced, maybe I was just lacking in confidence. Whatever it was, I was pleased it was over.

Almost two years ago, through lack of choice and with fear and trepidation, I went back to it. Last week it came to a halt, again through no choice of my own. My time on the FRU, the single-manned (personed) Fast Response Unit, has ended. All the things I hated about it the first time round, I loved this time, and I will sorely miss. I guess I'd grown up a little in the interim, and eventually started to feel at home in the FRU.

The most appealing is the challenge of having to think on your own, often for extended periods of time, and sometimes with very ill patients.

Starting a resus on your own and having to carry it out with no back-up for quarter of an hour.

Managing the asthmatic patient who's deteriorating before your very eyes.

Relieving the pain in the elderly patient who's fallen and fractured their hip.

And being unable to transport any of them.

Delivering a baby and praying for it to take its first breath.

Supporting the dislocated shoulder of a brave kid and watching them get drunk on entonox.

Sticking a plaster, or a band-aid, depending on where you are, on an adult who's behaving like a spoilt child.

And telling him so.

Being the first at the scene of a suicide attempt, working hard to save a life, only to see the patient whisked off in the ambulance or the helicopter, and staying at the scene filling in paperwork.

Being the first at the scene of a fatal accident, and having to call it before anyone else even turns up.

Being the first at the scene of a cardiac arrest, a terminally ill cancer patient, and grieving with the family.

And being left alone with your thoughts and a cup of coffee.

Travelling with a crew and them hating you for pulling rank.

Travelling with a crew and them loving you for pulling rank.

Travelling with a crew and the patient thanking you all. Together.

And having to justify it all. To control, to the crew, to the patient, to yourself.

Now, it's back to a mix of real ambulances and a few FRU shifts, but it won't be my car.

It'll be nice to have someone to share with, someone who I can look at over my shoulder when I'm unsure, and hopefully vice versa, someone to sing along to the radio with between and on the way to calls.

They say, whoever they are, that a change is as good as a holiday. Truth is, I could really do with one right now. It's just that I'll miss being at home.

Who'd have thought it?

Trick up the Sleeve

Once upon a time, in a land not far from here at all, there was a brand new EMT. So new, that he'd only been let loose on the public a matter of a month earlier. He was a nervous, quiet, shy character, not yet quite at ease with his new surroundings, but loving them nonetheless. He wanted to see everything, do everything, know everything, all in the quickest time possible, but for now was always happy that there was someone there wiser, more knowledgeable and more experienced than he to rely on.

One fine day, along with female crewmate, he was sent to an RTC. A lady had fallen off the back of a bus. 'Twas one of the olde worlde, London icon type Routemaster buses, with no door at the rear, and said lady jumped off whilst the vehicle was still in motion. "Stupid", I hear you chorus, with a "serves her right" to boot, but with these buses, jumping on and off at low speed was part of their charm. This time, however, she landed awkwardly and had hurt her arm.

She sat on a wall with her friend, cradling her arm, obviously in pain. As brand new EMT and partner approached the lady, a comment was passed between the patient and friend in a language other than English. A derogatory comment, even a racist one. Said EMT ignored seeing and hearing the comment, registered it and stored it in the back of his mind, and went about attempting to treat the patient. The middle of the patient's lower arm had a shape to it that even to a brand new EMT said "Broken". No question about that one.

Patient wouldn't, couldn't, or didn't make eye contact, and just said, in perfectly good English, "I can't come in your ambulance". Brand new EMT wasn't too shocked, and played dumb.

"If you'd rather be treated by my colleague, that is fine with me. I understand you might wish to be treated by a female".

"No, no. I just can't come in your ambulance".

"Well, if that's the case, I'll just inform our control that you are refusing our aid, despite the fact that you clearly need it. They won't send another ambulance, just because you don't like the look of this one!"

"Oh", she said, and jabbered away in her vernacular to her friend. Clearly they were discussing their next move.

Brand new EMT's patience was wearing a little thin, but he maintained his composure as he asked "Are you refusing to be treated because of who I'm not, or because of who I am? Because you can't choose the crew that get sent to help you!"

Ruse possibly rumbled, patient and friend eventually agreed that they would travel with us and even allowed the brand new EMT to treat the patient. He gave her some entonox to ease the pain, explained that despite the fact that he had not yet been allowed X-Ray glasses that he was fairly certain that the arm was broken, and placed the arm in a splint.

All the while they talked between them about the fact that they'd had to travel in an ambulance with this brand new EMT, how they wished they didn't, how they hated him and his type, and how they'd have to make sure that their friends and family didn't find out about who it was that treated and transported them.

And all the while the brand new EMT sat and with a blank look on his face. Well, wouldn't you if everything around you was in a foreign language?

As they all arrived at the hospital, the back doors opened, and brand new EMT asked the patient how she was feeling now, and if she was ready to leave the ambulance.

Asked, not in English, but in their own language. One which I can't speak fluently, but can understand to a great extent, and speak just enough.

Two faces fell and became instantly beet red, and the two voices became instantly silent.

My face just had on it a small, wry smile.

I could have been angry, furious even. I could have complained, reported them. I could have even refused to treat and transport them.

Instead, I was just glad to have been the bigger person, and have a trick up my sleeve that left me with the last laugh.

Operating Table

Several weeks back, I attended the scene of a hit-and-run RTC. The patient was left seriously injured lying in the middle of the road.

He was unconscious. Barely breathing.

A massive head injury.

Every long bone was broken.

Joints were dislocated.

Blood covered the road surface in copious amounts.

I was first on scene. Then a crew, an ambulance officer, and the HEMS team.

We all worked quickly, professionally, silently at times.

If he was to survive, we needed to be at the top of our game, and even then there was barely a hope.

He was intubated, and we breathed for him.

He was cannulated, the fluids replacing the blood he was losing.

Limbs were straightened, some wounds covered with pressure bandages to try to control the worst of the bleeding.

He was loaded into the ambulance, and taken to a trauma centre the other side of town.

I didn't expect him to survive the journey, neither did I expect to ever find out if or how he did.

A couple of weeks ago I met one of the police officers who was there, who told me they still haven't found the driver, but he didn't know anything about the patient.

This morning, just before I left work after another busy night, all I wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed, the ambulance officer who was at the scene was just walking in.

"Morning", he said. I grunted a tired, and I think polite reply.

"Oh. You know that hit-and-run guy? That HEMS job a few weeks back?"

"Yeah. What about it?" I was waiting for him to tell me that the police wanted to take another statement.

"He died on the operating table three hours later".

Pendant

I took one look at the computer screen, took stock of the fact that it was an elderly person fallen at home. A Green call, the lowest priority possible. Doesn't even require lights and sirens. I muttered unthinkingly and quietly to myself. Or so I thought. "Oh Oh...", I said, for some unknown reason.

*****

The lady who opened the door to Grace Court appeared so old that it seemed that if she was to teach history, then Ancient Rome would be her speciality, due to first-hand experience of the era.

"Yes?" Even the monosyllabic required an immense effort.

"Ambulance Service, madam. We're here for one of your neighbours."

"Do you know who?", she asked, polysyllabalism still elusive.

"Yes madam. Thank you." I smile at her question. Even at an age that would put Methuselah to shame, the sense of curiosity hadn't left her.

The building we enter is a warden-controlled residence. The residents, typically elderly, but largely self sufficient, have the benefit of an on-site manager who can be called on for some basic care and assistance, whilst also maintaining the luxury of independence that they would lose if moved to a nursing home. Most of the residents have emergency call buttons worn as pendants around their necks, so help can be summonsed at a moment's notice. Harold had decided otherwise.

*****

It had taken a concerted effort from Harold's family to get him to agree to move here, away from the home he'd lived in for the past 50 years. Harold was a very proud man, an Army Captain who'd seen and survived so much. He still did his own shopping, cooking and cleaning. Only recently he'd agreed to allow his daughter to do his laundry. The man who had rebuffed so many advances of enemy armies, had to make this one concession to the advancing years.

His family would visit every few days, every weekend without fail, and someone would call every other day. Mondays were a quiet day, time for Harold to recover from the grandchildren running riot around his apartment. He hated to admit it, but these days they seemed to exhaust him a little quicker, tire him out for a little longer. He loved having the family visit, but he also treasured his Sunday evenings and Mondays, knowing that the phone or the doorbell wouldn't ring, and he revelled in the calm after the storm. We were called to Harold on Tuesday morning.

*****

Harold's daughter had called him and unusually received no reply. The phone rang continuously. He hated the idea of an answer-phone, his theory of "If it's important, they'll call back" foremost in his thoughts on the matter. He did, however, unlike many of his generation, carry a mobile phone if he ever went out, but it was switched off when he was at home. "I'm currently probably at home", said the message. "If you know my phone number there, please feel free to use it. If you don't, then I probably don't know you either, so don't bother. Thank you". He must have recorded the message with the family around, as there was a great deal of merriment in the background, but no room for leaving messages here either. Sensing trouble, Harold's daughter made the 25 minute journey to visit him. When she arrived, Harold was on the floor. We arrived no more than five minutes later, despite the fact that the call was the lowest on the priority list.

*****

Harold breathed a shallow breath every ten seconds or so, and seemed to have no pulse that we could feel, he was unconscious, but clearly still alive. Listening to his chest I could hear his rapid heartbeat, feebly trying to keep his body fuelled with the oxygen it craved. It was racing at almost 200 beats a minute. Not enough for the heart to refill and pump the blood around the body. He had no recordable blood pressure. We helped with his breathing, and thought that if we tried to move him with almost no blood pressure, we'd probably kill him. He needed more than just salty water in his veins, but it's the best we had to try to stabilise him enough to be moved. After a litre of fluid, Harold's blood pressure was at least readable. Not good, but better. His breathing had also improved a little, and he was conscious enough to mumble a few unclear words. Time being of the essence, we decided that it was best to move. Once we'd handed Harold over to the hospital team, my crewmate told me off. "Next time you think Oh Oh, will you please keep it to yourself! Bloody Jonah!" Obviously I'd not muttered quite as quietly as I'd thought.

*****

Harold was given a blood transfusion, had surgery on his broken hip, and was kept in for several weeks to recover. I kept track of his progress as best I could, and eventually was told that he'd been discharged home. I'd long forgotten about Harold when, several months later I had a call back to Grace Court. The door was opened by a gentleman who still managed to look several years younger than his real age. He walked with no assistance, spoke clearly, knew who we were and why we were there. "I believe you're here to help Alice. She's fallen again. I've tried to make her comfortable, but I just can't get her up off the floor. Not quite as young as I used to be. Anyway, she's just over there".

We walked over to Alice, who this time had just slipped onto the floor and needed help getting up again. Whilst we were helping her, a voice behind me said: "Apparently your chaps were here helping me a few months ago. I don't remember them or indeed what happened, but if you see them, please tell them that the stubborn old fool from flat 42 is still fighting fit!"

"I'll make sure to do that, sir", I said with a grin, noting that he'd finally agreed to wear the emergency pendant.

Funny Bone?

Children's playgrounds are made for children. For good reason.
Climbing frames are generally built for fun and enjoyment by those same said children.
If you're an adult,
And drunk,
With several other drunk adults egging you on,
And stupid enough to try to play on said climbing frame,
In pitch black,
You're likely to come off second best.
Oops.
Once you're sober, your broken humerus will serve as a good reminder.
Yup. That's the one they call the funny bone.
I wonder why?