Page 92 of Am I Allergic to Men?
‘Miriam who does catering is obsessed with you. Apparently, you’ve told her you can get her tickets toThe Lion King? I’ve been asking you that question for years.’
‘Yeah? I know one of the swings.’
‘You slept with one of the swings?’
‘So rude to just jump to that assumption.’ The answer is yes, though. But of course I wandered out of my room here and got to know the people. I mean, what else was I going to do here for two weeks? Just lie here and think about the meaning of life?
‘I’m also going out for drinks next week with Zahra and the nurses. Oh, and did you meet that man who got skewered on that construction site?’
‘Skewered? You didn’t sleep with him, did you?’
‘No. He’s, like, sixty. His new name is Kebab but his wife’s been in and they’re lovely. They’ve booked me in for their granddaughter’s third birthday.’
Emma looks me at strangely. I’ve been recovering but seemingly also on the hustle. She places a swab over my arm and removes the needle, sticking a plaster over the place where it once was. I look down at it and then wind my arm around. Freedom, at last.
‘Come on, you. They’re waiting downstairs. Do you want a wheelchair?’ Emma asks.
‘No? You could give me a piggyback?’
‘No. Take it slowly.’
As I step out of the room, Zahra and a few nurses are standing around to offer hugs and their goodbyes and we wander through those brightly lit corridors, Emma with my bag in hand, looking official in her smart doctor garb and name badge, whereas I look like someone she’s taken in for the night. What have I learnt about this place? It is sobering to see people at their lowest, their physical beings failing on them, but geez, this place is held up by spirit, people fighting to get better and the kind souls who help them to do that. I grab Emma’s arm with silent pride to know she is part of that.
‘What will you do in your lunch breaks now? Where will you go?’ I ask her.
‘Oh, I might actually be able to eat in peace and not have someone steal all my lunch.’
‘Boring. I might have to come back and just harass you weekly.’
‘Only weekly. Any more and I’ll push you in front of another bus myself.’
We both laugh, entering a lift that also holds a withered older gentleman in a wheelchair hooked up to an oxygen tank. He wears his standard paper dress, covered with a dressing gown. There’s a look to his face that says he doesn’t really care for the aesthetic, confirmed by the way his legs are apart and he’s flashing his todger at us. I smile with wide-open delirious eyes at Emma, who pretends she’s studying the poster on the lift wall very very intently.
‘Where are your shoes, mate?’ I ask.
He turns to look at me, not impressed. ‘It’s not like I’m going running, innit?’
‘Very true. So what’s going on with you?’ I ask, pointing my finger around.
‘Shitting emphysema.’
‘I got hit by a bus.’
‘Well, that was stupid.’
Emma laughs. It was, wasn’t it? At least he’s honest enough to tell me to my face.
‘You fixed up now?’ he asks.
‘Who knows?’ I reply, spying a packet of cigarettes in his dressing gown pocket. ‘What about you?’
‘No. Lungs are buggered.’
‘Could be worse, at least you’ve still got a willy,’ I say, glancing down.
He looks down and howls with laughter, coughing and wrapping himself up. The lift doors open and we let him wheel himself out, waving as he does. This floor is busier, shops and outpatient clinics fill the spaces, but Emma navigates us through the doors outside. I’ve been out since I woke up but that hit of autumn sunshine is always welcome, the warmth on my face, the sound of my city in the background, sirens and traffic, the low buzz of London in my ears. We walk a short way to the hospital gardens, the Thames and the unmistakeable outline of the Houses of Parliament in the background.
‘They’re over here,’ Emma says, pointing to a bench. ‘I’m going to put your bag in my car and head back, all right?’
