Whatever you do, don’t look at the flannel 

I can’t catch you if you faint 

My husband looked up at me  

And my big belly 

And complied 

I knew he would keel over  

At the sight of his own blood. 

A bad cut on his head from the corner of the mantlepiece 

Needed a wash flannel to stem the blood flow. 

The gash looked alarming 

But no need for an ambulance. 

Still, best not take any chances.… 

We left the house arm in arm 

Baby kicking, sensing some excitement 

And got into a waiting taxi 

He, unsteady on his feet 

But a drive without incident. 

The A&E was on the east side of the old Royal Infirmary 

Down a narrow road parallel to the Meadows Walk.  

A bit of a squeeze for ambulances. 

A narrow, unremarkable entrance 

Rather at odds with the rest of the grand stone structure 

Of the hospital. 

I helped him out and steered him towards Reception. 

Simpsons Maternity’s down the road, they said, glancing at us. 

I grimaced. 

My husband doesn’t usually walk around  

With a bloody flannel on his head… 

Oh, sorry, let’s have a look then. 

Straight to the consultation area we went 

Green curtains drawn around the bed 

Bare, neon lights struggling to brighten the atmosphere 

A whiff of antiseptic wafting through the air 

Amidst the hum of voices of nurses and doctors  

And occasional clank of pans and bin lids. 

Tired, I made my way to the waiting area. 

Dingy walls and sad, sparse furnishings 

Green grey chairs and a few small tables 

A selection of ancient magazines. 

I picked one up. 

No mobile phones to keep us occupied. This was 1996. 

Some time later my husband emerged.  

Cut clipped together, armed with a tetanus booster 

Ready to go home. 

The kids called him Mr Staplehead for days.