Hickory Dickory Dock*

“I need some morphine,” I say, standing at the nurses’ station.  “I’m in so much pain and…”

“Which room are you?” A nurse says.  She’s young, pretty: long black hair tied in a ponytail.

“Fifteen,” I say.  

She pulls my chart down from a shelf, looks along it.

“You’re not due anything for the moment,” she says, shaking her head.  

“Clonazepam?   Morphine?” I say.  “Am in a lot of pain and am anxious and…”

“What’s your name?” She says.

“Tanya.  Tanya Marshall,” I say.

“Oh, sorry,” she says.  “Wrong folder.”  She puts it back on the shelf and takes a different folder down.  “You’ve come to the wrong ward.”

“Sorry,” I say.  “There wasn’t anyone at the other nurses’ station and I’m in so much pain and…”

“OK,”she says.  “Go back to your room and someone will bring you whatever you’re due.”

“Thank you,” I say, slinging my bag of drains over my shoulder and shuffling down the corridor back to my room.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I say.  

“Hello,” the nurse says, sitting on the edge of my bed.  “So what can I do for you.”

“Morphine. Clonazepam. Codeine. A chat. Am lonely and anxious and in pain,” I say.
“OK, so, I’ll bring some of your 12 o’clock pills,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “They’re meant to be staggered but they’ve all been coming at once and…”
“We’re understaffed,” she says. “Let’s sort your pain out anyway.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Oh, and some more of those sanitary pads to put in my bra and in my pants where bits of wee are leaking and…”
“OK,” she says.

The attached photo is some flowers and chocolates from my darling brother.

  
Happy Monday everyone!
*1955.  By Agatha Christie.  Hercule Poirot detective novel.  Contains morphine…

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