Nightmare in casualty

It’s half-past four in the morning and I’ve been sitting in the casualty department since two. I’m alone in the waiting room. Behind the glass partition two receptionists, one male, one female, are playing a video game on one of the computer screens.  Earlier, when I was on the verge of losing it because we’d had so long to wait, the bloke said, ‘Sir, I can understand that you don’t want to be here,’ as if he’s been taught to say it to defuse people’s anger. Then the woman had backed him up by saying that if I went and sat down for her, she’d bring me a cup of coffee.

But I’m calmer now. The place is a tip, newspaper and blankets and empty vending-machine cups everywhere, and half of the seats have been mutilated. But among the debris I’ve found a booklet of ten poems by Ted Hughes, introduction by Jeanette Winterson, given away free with one of the Sundays.