5
“So how’s that leg of yours this morning?” I ask Mary Davies, as I push her wheelchair towards the X-Ray department. “Still not healing?”
“Sorry, love,” she replies, tapping her right ear. “I don’t have my hearing-aid in. You’ll have to speak up.”
“How’s that leg of yours?” I repeat, this time much louder.
“It’s b****y awful, Matthew,” she replies; her elderly voice gravelly. “Just awful. And it has been for three months now. I bet you’re sick of the sight of me.”
“Don’t be so silly,” I reply, chirpily. “As much as I want you to get better, the place wouldn’t be the same without you, Mary.”
“Oh, that’s sweet. You’re a good boy, Matthew. You’re all good boys here. I tell you, the porters here are second to none. Honestly. Better than those miserable doctors, and those b****y nurses.
