Counting Sheep

As I lay down my head to sleep,
I start to count a million sheep.
Them sheep, they laugh at me and say
no sleep tonight shall come your way.

I try to argue, beg and plead,
but those damn sheep, they pay no heed.
I press my case, express my sorrow,
Explain my schedule for tomorrow.

I start the count from the beginning,
losing track whilst they are winning.
They laugh and gambol 'cross the field,
Yet heavy eyelids will still not yield.

I change the tactic, skip the sheep,
get out of bed, downstairs I creep.
Try TV or sit and read,
Pray for sleep in time of need.

I fail, and fail, and fail some more,
Insomnia is such a bore.
But then, a glint of hope, of joy,
I've come up with a cunning ploy.

Those teasing, those tormenting sheep,
will now no longer stop my sleep.
They will no more just sit and stare
as I lie still and pull my hair.

My plan involves a plate of meat,
Those sheep's wool coats now not so neat.
My diner now adds to the tab,
as I tuck in to lamb kebab...

Two Seats

A pair of expensive-looking trainers adorned the feet that stuck out from behind the bush. It was the only part of Jacek that was visible from the street. A concerned member of the public walking home late at night called the ambulance when he thought someone must be lying dead. It's a good thing he waited, because we'd never have spotted the shoes from the road.

"He's in there. Not sure if he's breathing or not, didn't want to get too close."

At five in the morning I had to ask what he was doing walking around the streets.

"I was on my way home from work. I do funny hours too."

"Oh really? What do you do?"

"I'm a nightclub bouncer."

I should have guessed really. Six feet four in every direction, close cropped hair, and a badly fitting suit - a perfect stereotype. The fact that someone who intimidates people for a living was a little nervous about approaching a pair of shoes, or at least whatever or whoever was attached to them, seemed a little ironic. I shook the patient's legs and one of the shoes fell off, making our bouncer friend visibly recoil.

A groggy mumble of "Go away!" from deep inside the bush only added to his discomfort.

"Do you still need me here, or am I alright to go home?"

"Yeah, sure. We're OK here. Thanks for your help."

He practically ran away from the scene.

After a few more attempts at waking up our patient, he finally relented and climbed out of the branches, hampered slightly by the thorns of a lone yellow rose. His face appeared last bearing a five o'clock shadow, but at the wrong five o'clock.

"Go away! I'm sleeping!"

There's gratitude for you.

"You can't sleep here. People will think you're dead and call ambulances!"

"Go away! I'm sleeping!"

"Where do you live?"

"I live here. Go away."

His clothes, other than the odd branch and a few green leaves, were clean, maybe even new. Not exactly the attire of a long-term homeless man. 

"Do you have any family in the area?" 

"No. They not live here." I guessed by his accent that he must have left his family in Eastern Europe somewhere. 

"And friends?" 

"My friend he is here." 

"Where's here?"

He turned round and looked back into the bushes.

"Here!" He points aggressively at the broken branches. "Don't you speak English good?" 

I looked at him, looked at my crewmate, shrugged my shoulders, and climbed half way into the bushes looking for a drunk friend. 

"Jacek, There's no-one in here!" 

"He is there! You not see him!"

I look again.

"There's definitely no-one here!" 

"He is there! Only I see him. You no see him!" 

I climb back out of the greenery, and look much the same as our patient with leaves and bits of broken branch all over me. 

"You mean to say I've gone looking for an invisible man?" 

My crewmate takes one look at me and tries to stifle a giggle. We help Jacek into the ambulance and as I'm about to take my seat, he suddenly shouts. 

"You not sit there! Friend - he is there!"

All of a sudden, the trolley seems a much better choice of seat. At the hospital, the waiting room is busy, and I take a minute to look around.

"What are you waiting for?" asks my crewmate.

"Just trying to find two seats together." 

Irony

You're sending me? To this?

Starfish Ward

The outside of the building is dark and miserable, much like the early morning itself. We walk in, straight past the lift where I have some mad memories of a call years ago (that story another time), and up a flight of stairs. Hospitals are miserable places. Full of sick people as well as unappreciated and overworked staff. The only place in a hospital that tends to have smiling faces is the maternity unit. Oddly, that's the building we walked into, but only because that's where the paediatric wards are, and we were taking our little one to say goodbye to his troublesome tonsils. Over a dozen episodes of tonsillitis and dozens more "Say Ahh"s in eighteen months do not make for a particularly happy young boy. For a change, the system agreed with us, and the NHS would take the kind donation of a pair of five year old tonsils.

The dark early morning confused the little one into thinking that we'd woken him in the middle of the night. We'd prepared him for the day by explaining as much as we knew. He read a book that he borrowed from a friend who'd faced the same ordeal not long ago and understood a little more, and we had decided up front - no tricks. He knew about the magic (EMLA) cream on his hands, he knew about the needle and that he wouldn't feel it, he knew that he'd be asleep when his tonsils were taken out, and he knew that, more importantly than his parents being there with him, so would his favourite Beddy Bear.

He pressed the button allowing us into the ward, and the instant the door opened, the hospital magically transformed. Starfish Ward is full of colour, the walls covered with sea creatures of all sorts, psychedelic jellyfish dangle from the ceilings, and the theme is continued into the rooms and especially the impressive play area. The first person we met smiled at him and made him instantly feel at ease. Not an easy feat at the end of a night shift. We were shown to a room where he was given a choice: bed by the window or bed by the TV. The view from the window was dull and full of hospital buildings. I'll let you guess which he chose.

After he was booked in he was asked if he wanted to head to the play area. The world land speed record was broken on route. Whilst he was entertained we met the nurse who'd be looking after him, the surgeon, the anaesthetist (add an -easiologist on the end if you're across the pond), and were constantly kept updated by the staff who couldn't do enough for us. MrsInsomniac kept a cool and calm exterior, even as we wheeled him down the long corridors towards theatre, helped in no small part by the staff and their caring attitude. The normal sized hospital bed made him look small and for the first time a little vulnerable as he was taken into the anaesthetic room.

The cannula went into his little hand, twice, without even a flinch. He even watched as they did it, probably making sure they were doing it right and that everything he was told was true. As the propofol went in I watched him fight a losing battle with sleep he gripped ever more tightly onto his bear, I gave him a kiss, and left to wait outside.

An hour later they came to find us.

We went to see him up in the recovery room, where he was just coming round and was a little confused. A bit like I feel most of the time. He tried sitting up in the bed, but his head looked as if it was made of lead and made him lie back down again. MrsI held his hand all the way back to the ward, back through the grey buildings, through a colourful mural painted in one tunnel as we approached our destination, and back into the full vibrancy of Starfish just moments later.

It took him just over an hour before he was back playing in the play area, as if nothing was wrong. Analgesics are wonderful things. He was eating and drinking a little, and the first "Can we go home now?" came after less than two hours. Barely six hours after the operation, we were allowed home. He couldn't wait to get home and show his non-existent tonsils to his big sisters.

The system is what it is. It's beauraucratic, it's cumbersome, sometimes it's slow and irritating. There are gripes, there are moans, there are those who, whatever you do for them, will always complain about the system and those who run it not doing enough. Behind the system, however, stuck in its grinding cogs, are the staff. The real people with real faces.

On Starfish ward they wear brightly coloured uniforms that match their surroundings. The staff we encountered are a credit to their uniforms, and their characters mirror in them. They were helpful, friendly and understanding, and of course highly professional. There were children on that ward who are, unfortunately, regular customers and the staff know them well. We were only temporary dwellers, yet were treated by the staff as if we'd been there every day for a year. They are a credit to their ward, to their hospital and most importantly to themselves. MrsI, JuniorI and I (heh) can't thank them enough. Instead of hanging your "Thank You" card stuck onto a wall or cupboard door somewhere, yours is going global.

Oh. And it was two operations for the price of one. Beddy Bear also had his tonsils out. Starfish looked after him too.