© Chris Port, May 2011
Many years ago, I once spent a very enjoyable day talking to some medical students in a London pub. I won’t mention the pub, or the hospital. I mean the whole day, from midday to chucking out time.
Those medical students must have had Promethean livers that grew back each night. Either that or they were doing sneaky liver transplants on each other.
Anyway, by the time they called time I had forgotten where I lived or what my name was. I got up to leave, but somebody had stolen my legs, so I promptly collapsed.
The next thing I knew was when I woke up in the dark in a bed that wasn't mine. There was a bedside table. I fumbled and switched on a lamp.
There was a pint of orange juice, some aspirin, and a note. The note read: 'We thought you might need these'.
The barmaids had carried me unconscious upstairs and put me up in one of the spare rooms above the pub. Wasn't that sweet of them?
In Southside, I would have woken up on the pavement...
Those medical students must have had Promethean livers that grew back each night. Either that or they were doing sneaky liver transplants on each other.
Anyway, by the time they called time I had forgotten where I lived or what my name was. I got up to leave, but somebody had stolen my legs, so I promptly collapsed.
The next thing I knew was when I woke up in the dark in a bed that wasn't mine. There was a bedside table. I fumbled and switched on a lamp.
There was a pint of orange juice, some aspirin, and a note. The note read: 'We thought you might need these'.
The barmaids had carried me unconscious upstairs and put me up in one of the spare rooms above the pub. Wasn't that sweet of them?
In Southside, I would have woken up on the pavement...
By the way, one of the things the medical students told me was not to get run over in September. Apparently, when they’re first released onto the wards without sleep for a week, it’s called ‘the killing season’...
So, one way or another, the doctors always get you. We just kill time, until time kills us...
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