Patients. Not even Crimes.
‘Initial?‘ repeated the girl flatly.
‘L,‘ snapped Sir Lancelot.
‘L for Lionel?‘
‘L for Lancelot, damn you!‘
‘Mind yer language!‘ snapped the girl, coming to life.
‘I‘m afraid these questions are all necessary, Lancelot,‘ purred the hostess. ‘You see, the doctors couldn‘t continue their great work of healing here otherwise. Just tell Miss Fernlove your age, now.‘
Sir Lancelot produced the yellow silk handkerchief.
‘Twenty-one,‘ he declared.
‘Occupation?‘ inquired Miss Fernlove.
‘Deipnosophist.‘
‘Religion?‘
‘Warlock.‘
‘Got a letter from your doctor?‘
‘No,‘ Sir Lancelot swallowed. ‘No, young lady, I have not got a letter from any doctor.‘
‘Got your P/P?‘
‘Thank you, but it was unnecessary to bring a specimen.‘
‘That‘s the form you get from the porter by the blackboard,‘ explained the hostess gently.
‘Good God!‘ Sir Lancelot re-exploded. ‘I‘ve come here for an X-ray, not to renew my ruddy dog licence-‘
‘Will you kindly remember you are in a hospital, Mr Spratt?‘ The hostess‘ smile, which had been steadily dimming, finally went out. ‘You must try and conduct yourself appropriately.‘
‘Look here, young woman, I‘ve spilt more blood in this place than you have circulating in your entire body — ‘
‘Please!‘ She shut her eyes. ‘Don‘t be crude.‘
‘Has everybody gone mad? Is the entire hospital in a state of anarchy?‘ Sir Lancelot took another bang at the counter. ‘Where is Sister? Where‘s Mr Cambridge? I have had more than enough of this blasted tomfoolery, and I demand to be taken this instant to — Ahhhhhhhh!‘
His back had gone again.
‘Now, now! Come and sit down on this wheelchair.‘ The hostess, finding a clinical condition on her hands, was all solicitude again. ‘The back, is it? We mustn‘t overstrain ourselves, must we? You just relax and be comfortable,‘ she advised, draping a highly insanitary-looking pink knitted shawl round his shoulders, ‘and I‘ll wheel you to see the doctor. We don‘t want you to worry a bit, Grandpa.‘
‘Grandpa!‘ croaked Sir Lancelot.
Luckily for his nursemaid, he found further speech impossible.
Simon Sparrow was having a trying morning. His chief, Mr Hubert Cambridge, FRCS, was an amiable taskmaster but of such vague outlook that everyone in St Swithin‘s wondered how he avoided leaving his patients stuffed with swabs like teddy bears. He had totally forgotten the arrival of another weird group of doctors assembled by the United Nations and shot round the world to widen medical knowledge, forge links, and so on, and Simon had suddenly found himself left to run Out Patients alone. This professional advance since the days Simon and I were slung out of pubs together may surprise you, but it‘s always the way in medicine. As a student you reckon the housemen embody a wisdom stopping just short of Hippocrates. When you move up to Registrar, you wonder how 7 a bunch of dolts like them ever got qualified. And when you finally turn into a consultant, you thank your lucky stars there‘re so many people to make all the mistakes first.
Simon had just got rid of a patient with an involved history going back to the Blitz and was snatching a cup of coffee when a nurse dashed in exclaiming, ‘Oh, Mr Sparrow! There‘s a patient outside in a wheelchair — ‘
‘Then I expect he‘s unable to walk, Nurse,‘ returned Simon briefly. As I said, it had been a trying morning.
‘But Mr Sparrow! He‘s the spit and image of Sir Lancelot Spratt!‘
‘Good God!‘ Simon swept his feet off the desk and pushed the coffee cup into a drawer. ‘Good — good morning, sir,‘ he added as a nurse wheeled the surgeon in.
‘Good morning, Simon,‘ he greeted his former protégé blackly. ‘Perhaps you would have the kindness to tell me what I may do with this?‘ The hostess had given him an iced bun.
‘Nurse, a vomit bowl,‘
‘Initial?‘ repeated the girl flatly.
‘L,‘ snapped Sir Lancelot.
‘L for Lionel?‘
‘L for Lancelot, damn you!‘
‘Mind yer language!‘ snapped the girl, coming to life.
‘I‘m afraid these questions are all necessary, Lancelot,‘ purred the hostess. ‘You see, the doctors couldn‘t continue their great work of healing here otherwise. Just tell Miss Fernlove your age, now.‘
Sir Lancelot produced the yellow silk handkerchief.
‘Twenty-one,‘ he declared.
‘Occupation?‘ inquired Miss Fernlove.
‘Deipnosophist.‘
‘Religion?‘
‘Warlock.‘
‘Got a letter from your doctor?‘
‘No,‘ Sir Lancelot swallowed. ‘No, young lady, I have not got a letter from any doctor.‘
‘Got your P/P?‘
‘Thank you, but it was unnecessary to bring a specimen.‘
‘That‘s the form you get from the porter by the blackboard,‘ explained the hostess gently.
‘Good God!‘ Sir Lancelot re-exploded. ‘I‘ve come here for an X-ray, not to renew my ruddy dog licence-‘
‘Will you kindly remember you are in a hospital, Mr Spratt?‘ The hostess‘ smile, which had been steadily dimming, finally went out. ‘You must try and conduct yourself appropriately.‘
‘Look here, young woman, I‘ve spilt more blood in this place than you have circulating in your entire body — ‘
‘Please!‘ She shut her eyes. ‘Don‘t be crude.‘
‘Has everybody gone mad? Is the entire hospital in a state of anarchy?‘ Sir Lancelot took another bang at the counter. ‘Where is Sister? Where‘s Mr Cambridge? I have had more than enough of this blasted tomfoolery, and I demand to be taken this instant to — Ahhhhhhhh!‘
His back had gone again.
‘Now, now! Come and sit down on this wheelchair.‘ The hostess, finding a clinical condition on her hands, was all solicitude again. ‘The back, is it? We mustn‘t overstrain ourselves, must we? You just relax and be comfortable,‘ she advised, draping a highly insanitary-looking pink knitted shawl round his shoulders, ‘and I‘ll wheel you to see the doctor. We don‘t want you to worry a bit, Grandpa.‘
‘Grandpa!‘ croaked Sir Lancelot.
Luckily for his nursemaid, he found further speech impossible.
Simon Sparrow was having a trying morning. His chief, Mr Hubert Cambridge, FRCS, was an amiable taskmaster but of such vague outlook that everyone in St Swithin‘s wondered how he avoided leaving his patients stuffed with swabs like teddy bears. He had totally forgotten the arrival of another weird group of doctors assembled by the United Nations and shot round the world to widen medical knowledge, forge links, and so on, and Simon had suddenly found himself left to run Out Patients alone. This professional advance since the days Simon and I were slung out of pubs together may surprise you, but it‘s always the way in medicine. As a student you reckon the housemen embody a wisdom stopping just short of Hippocrates. When you move up to Registrar, you wonder how 7 a bunch of dolts like them ever got qualified. And when you finally turn into a consultant, you thank your lucky stars there‘re so many people to make all the mistakes first.
Simon had just got rid of a patient with an involved history going back to the Blitz and was snatching a cup of coffee when a nurse dashed in exclaiming, ‘Oh, Mr Sparrow! There‘s a patient outside in a wheelchair — ‘
‘Then I expect he‘s unable to walk, Nurse,‘ returned Simon briefly. As I said, it had been a trying morning.
‘But Mr Sparrow! He‘s the spit and image of Sir Lancelot Spratt!‘
‘Good God!‘ Simon swept his feet off the desk and pushed the coffee cup into a drawer. ‘Good — good morning, sir,‘ he added as a nurse wheeled the surgeon in.
‘Good morning, Simon,‘ he greeted his former protégé blackly. ‘Perhaps you would have the kindness to tell me what I may do with this?‘ The hostess had given him an iced bun.
‘Nurse, a vomit bowl,‘
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