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 flannel to stem the flow of blood.
The gash looked alarming
But no need for an ambulance, we agreed…
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, then smiled.
Yes, but 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 sat down and picked one up.
No mobile phones to keep us occupied
This was 1996.
Soon after, my husband emerged
Cut clipped together, armed with a tetanus booster
And ready to go home.
The kids called him Daddy Staplehead for days.