In The Treatment Room

Dr Pritchard

In the next bed, Dr Pritchard,
on his back, arms outstretched,
clutching the night,
is croaking ‘Save us, save us.’

Lights are low
but not low enough.

Heating is high.
Sleep impossible.

The nurses shuffle papers,
tap computer keys,
whisper
and try to shush Dr Pritchard.

‘Hush Dr Pritchard.
Think of the other patients.’

Does he understand?

He’s quiet for a while
then
‘Nurse, nurse, paracetamol.’

‘Doctors
are always the worst patients,
aren’t they Dr Pritchard?’


Dave & Chris

Early on in their 12 hour night shift
Dave and Chris
are dealing with a drunk
whose clothing is saturated.

‘What’s your name mate?
Can you tell us your name?’

‘William,’ he says. Slurred. Well-spoken.

‘Is it raining outside William?’

‘Mm.’

‘We’ll have to get you out of these
wet clothes William.
Is that OK?’

‘Mm.’

‘Do you work William.
Have you got a job?’

‘Army, I was in the army.’

‘Afghanistan,’ he says.
‘I’m a national hero.’

‘I’m sure you are William.
I’m sure you are.’

‘Now, let’s get that jacket off.’