Revisiting my "Why did I do that" moment

Here's a revisit to my lightbulb moment, for those who missed it the first time.

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

Thirty odd years ago I did something very stupid.....I joined the ambulance service.

Today you really have to have degrees coming out of your ears to even think about applying, but back then it was different. It was 1980 to be precise, and I was an innocent 21 year old. In those days they would take virtually anyone!

I was technically unemployed at the time, having been working as a sales rep for all of two weeks and hating every moment; I just couldn’t sell a thing, partly because the stuff I was trying to sell was total crap and partly because I really couldn’t be bothered.

The local job centre was a frequent stop for me; you just walked in and looked at the little pieces of cardboard stuck to the wall, if something took your fancy then you would have a quick word with one of staff and they would sort you out. One day I was perusing the said wall when one of the bits of cardboard caught my eye. The county ambulance service was looking for victims.

I didn’t do anything then. I just walked out and went down the pub.

A couple of days later I decided that trying to sell stuff that I had absolutely no interest in selling was perhaps not a good career move, so I jacked it in. I was now unemployed...again.

Over the next few days I started thinking about how I intended to support myself and how I could get beer money. I was still living with my parents at the time, so beer money was the priority. I chewed the cud and started thinking seriously about joining one of the emergency services.

The police force was a good option, but wasn’t there a possibility that you could actually get hurt? I mean the police had to arrest people, generally people who didn’t want to get arrested. You could even get shot at...with a gun! I’m a coward, and I had seen a few rucks in my time and had seen a few coppers get in the way of a good right hand. No, the police wasn’t for me.

The fire service was another option, but you had to put out fires, and I had no desire to go anywhere near something that was hot and burning and smoking and exploding, you had to climb ladders too.....No, the fire service wasn’t for me either.

That left the ambulance service. You only had to take sick people to hospital, so you should be relatively safe from harm, it would be a doddle. The pay wasn’t that good, but I could do that while looking for a job that I actually wanted to do. I had already seen the bit of cardboard pinned to the wall down at the job centre, so I resolved to wander down the next day and see if it was still there.

I went down......and sadly it was!

Never miss an opportunity!

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

Early 1980’s

We were on our way to deposit our patient at hospital and I was in the back chatting away with him; he had minor chest pains which either could or could not be cardiac related. At that time we had no equipment to check on heart rhythms or even to take blood a pressure, it was all down to experience. We were talking about normal things, football, the weather, his imminent demise, when I felt the vehicle slow down. I craned my neck and had a look through the connecting door to the cab; there was no traffic, so I was a bit confused as to why we had slowed down. A few seconds later we were off again, this time with a little more speed.

At the hospital Denny seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. We did the changeover pretty quickly and made our patient comfortable on the hospital trolley and left the nurse began to do her checks. We tidied up the vehicle and I went to walk over to the tea room as was normal. Denny had other Ideas.

‘Come on Clive, we need to get back.’

I pulled a confused face; Denny was never in a hurry to do anything!

Being the junior member I didn’t argue, I just shrugged my shoulders and climbed in the cab. Denny jumped in and off we went. I booked available with control and they told us to return to station. This seemed to please Denny.

We retraced our way back, and although it was a slightly longer route, we went through the same villages that we had just come through. Denny had a look of serious concentration on his face, so much so that he hadn’t even rolled a ciggie for the journey back.

As we entered the small village where Denny had slowed down earlier, a triumphant look crossed his face. He pulled over next to an old house that was being refurbished. Outside, in the drive, was a skip.

I sat there and waited while Denny went off and began to speak to the owner. There were a few grins and a lot of head nodding and Denny rubbed his hands in glee. He then walked over to me.

‘Give us a hand will you.’

‘Er…yes, sure. What are we doing?’

‘This old door and that frame is just what I need. He’s letting me have them.’

A few minutes later the back of the ambulance was filled with and assortment of old bits and pieces; there was a big Victorian door, a window frame (glass still attached), a couple of lengths of four by four, a fire grate and a couple of other bits and bobs.

Denny seemed pleased with his haul. I on the other hand was not as pleased as I just knew that something was going to happen.

It did.

About five minutes later the radio crackled to life.

‘Red call. RTA. A41. Two cars involved. No further details.’

‘Bollocks!’ said Denny. ‘Ask them if there’s another vehicle available.’

I did, and got the response I thought I’d get.

‘If there was another vehicle we would have sent it. Sorry, it’s yours.’

Denny growled and moaned as he turned on the blue lights and hit the accelerator.

The RTA turned out to be a minor one, a few cuts and bruises but one patient needed to go to hospital for a few stitches. I opened up the back of the motor and the patient stopped dead in his tracks. The back of the motor was filled with…er…stuff.

Denny and I did the only thing we could under the circumstances; we ignored it all.

The patient just looked confused as if the RTA had done something to his head and that he was really suffering from a concussion and was hallucinating; what he thought he was seeing wasn’t really there so if everybody else was ignoring it then it might be an idea for him to ignore it too. I sat him down and then moved one or two things around to get a bit more room. The door was being a bit of a problem, so without explaining why I propped it up and asked him to hold on to it. For some very strange reason this he did. He didn’t even ask why he was in the back of an ambulance after having been involved in a car accident and holding on to an old Victorian door. He just did it!

Fortunately we had to go through our town to get to hospital, so we did a quick detour to station. Nothing was mentioned until Denny and I unloaded everything and stacked it up in the appliance room, with the patient even giving us a hand.

‘Can I ask something?’ queried the patient when we were just about to set off again.

‘Of course mate,’ replied Denny, who was just shutting the back door.

‘What was that about?’

Quick as a flash Denny responded. ‘NHS cuts mate. We’ve got to save money and we’ve been told to keep an eye out for anything useful. Station’s falling apart and there’s no money to fix it.’

‘Oh!’

Denny shook his head sadly. ‘Yeah, the things we have to do, eh?’

When the newspaper came out later in the week I was relieved to see nothing in it, obviously NHS cuts weren’t worth a mention!

Oops!

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

Early 1980’s

Driving back to station after depositing a patient with non-specific abdominal pain at the hospital, we were enjoying the sunshine. In those days the doors of the vehicle were of the sliding variety and we had a hook which would keep the doors wide open. This was also the time before seatbelts were compulsory, so like most people, we didn’t wear them.

Wide open doors and no seatbelt could be interesting as you hurtled down the road and around sharp bends. Fortunately there were grab handles and these were regularly put to use. More than once did I miss as I felt myself leaning over to the left a little bit more than I should have done, resulting in a lot of swearing and a few strange and panicky looks from pedestrians. It’s not an everyday occurrence to see an ambulanceman hanging out of the door and desperately trying to grab hold of something tangible to stop being thrown out at sixty miles an hour or so.

I was working with Jim, another old hand, and we were merrily chatting away. Jim liked to smoke a pipe and it was practically a permanent fixture. Jim was driving and puffing away like an express train while I was in the passenger seat with a roll-up clamped between my teeth; the smoke billowing out of the doors and being carried away on the wind.

Smoking wasn’t prohibited on the vehicles at that time. Standing Orders allowed it under certain circumstances, and like most crews we stretched the rules to the limit.

The radio crackled to life. ‘Message from the Chief Office,’ intoned control to all the vehicles in the county.

Our ears pricked up. Something was amiss. The Chief very rarely had anything to do with crews and if he wanted to say something it normally went down through the ranks for us crews to ignore.

‘Would the crew currently driving past Hemel Hempstead railway station kindly extinguish their cigarettes and close their doors.’

Jim and I looked at each other. We then looked out of the vehicle; we had just driven past the railway station and it took a few seconds to realise that we were the recipient of this message. I looked at the radio and then back at Jim.

‘Bollocks to him,’ said Jim. ‘Anyway, I’m smoking a pipe. He’s on about you Clive!’

Reality bites

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

early 1980’s

I learnt pretty early in my career that there are jobs that people don’t mind doing and there are jobs that nobody wants to do. Even serious jobs can be interesting in a strange sort of way; something to the get the old grey matter working and something to give you a sense of satisfaction when the job’s done. However, there are some jobs that are serious and give you absolutely no sense of job satisfaction at all; these are the jobs that fill you with despair.

I was on an early turn. My crewmate was on leave and I was working with Chris who was on overtime, which meant that he attended while I was the driver and tea maker for the shift. Spring has sprung and it was a mild sunny morning. The night crew had gone home and we were settling down for a doze before the day crew came in. I’d just slurped the last dregs from my mug and had stubbed out the ciggie when the phone intruded into the peace.

‘Red call,’ called Chris. ‘Difficulty in breathing.’

I jumped up, yawned and went through to the appliance room. I opened the door and took the vehicle out; then Chris came running up and jumped in.

‘More info; this is a baby – could be a cardiac arrest.’

My heart sank.

I switched the blue lights on and we roared out of the station, heading off to the address. Neither of us said a word. I negotiated the rush hour traffic; swerving, braking, hammering my foot down on the accelerator and mentally swearing at all the cars on the road. The silence in the cab was deafening. A few cars refused to get out of the way and I blasted them with the two-tones again and again. Eventually we got off the main drag and into the side streets, I switched the noise off but I kept my foot hard down on the pedal. We lurched around a few corners and then into the street we were aiming for. A lone person was standing outside of the address waving frantically. I hit the brake and we pulled up. Chris jumped out before I had the handbrake on and I followed as soon as I could.

There are exceptions to the ambulance rule of not running to an incident. The walking time is time to think, to weigh up the situation, to gauge how things stand. This was one incident when the rule was cast aside. Chris ran and then I ran too.

Inside the house were the family; the mother, the father and two toddlers who knew something was wrong but couldn’t fathom out just what it was. The man outside was a neighbour.

The weeping mother thrust the baby at Chris who took the little bundle into his arms. The form was like a rag doll, blue of lips with staring unblinking eyes. It was naked apart from its nappy. A dribble of milky vomit came from its mouth. Chris began mouth to mouth resuscitation and compressed the chest with his fingers. I turned and ran out to open the back doors of the ambulance. Hurriedly Chris jumped on and the mother followed. I jumped into the driver’s seat and we sped off.

‘Six week old baby; cardiac arrest. Team standing by. ETA twelve minutes,’ I barked into the radio.

‘Understood,’ came the sympathetic reply.

Chris had laid the baby on the stretcher and was doing CPR. The mother was perched on the edge of the seat and weeping. I could hear the occasional desperate plea; ‘My baby, my baby! Please help my baby!’

Doing CPR in the back of a fast moving vehicle is fraught with danger. Unrestrained you can be thrown around. I called out to Chris from the front. ‘Left-hand bend.’ ‘Overtaking.’ ‘Braking;’ with the occasional, ‘You bastard. Get out the fucking way!’ to keep him informed.

The journey seemed to take forever, but eventually the vehicle fair screeched into the hospital. Word had got out about what we were bringing in and the entrance was cleared of ambulances. I drove straight in, not bothering to reverse up to the entrance. Outside were some of the team, waiting for us. The doors were ripped open and Chris grabbed the baby and jumped out. A doctor ran alongside him as they disappeared into the entrance. A nurse helped the mother out and hurried her in too. I followed and we all went straight to the crash room. The room was filled with doctors and nurses and the urgent task of trying to save the baby’s life continued.

I looked at Chris’ face; it was blank as he stood back from the trolley. I think mine was the same. The battle was in earnest; the tension in the room palpable. Lines were inserted into the baby’s groin, adrenaline administered. An intubation tube was put in and connected to the resuscitator, the defibrillator applied. Everything that could be done was being done. That little scrap was surrounded by experts who battled for its little life. Time was stretched but it didn’t matter. The fight for life was more important.

Chris and I watched from the corner of the room. We were well out of the way but were desperate for a positive outcome; but in our heart of hearts we knew that it wasn’t going to be. Unfortunately we were proved right.

After nearly an hour the consultant uttered the fateful words. ‘I think we’ve done enough. Is there anyone who doesn’t agree?’ This he directed to everyone in the room; the other doctors, the nurses and even Chris and me; the mother had been taken outside for a while. We all nodded our consent; if anyone voiced an objection the attempt would continue, but with great reluctance, the forlorn attempt to save the life of a six week old baby came to an end.

Dejectedly I went outside to clear up the back of the motor while Chris went to get some tea. Some nice person had moved our vehicle; they had turned it around and had reversed it up to the entrance, they’d also cleared up the mess in the back. I didn’t know who, but I was grateful for their kindness. I sat on the step and rolled a ciggie. I lit up, took a long deep drag and then felt my eyes prick. The emotion of the situation flooded through me and for the first time I began to question my career choice. Up until now the job had been a lot of fun, it was interesting and I had met some wonderful people, but when reality bites, it can bite hard! I tried to hold things back but it was no good; so, and not for the last time in my career, I sat on the rear step and cried.

Millared

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

 1982

The question ‘You Millared yet?’ came up quite a bit. To be “Millared” was to become qualified. This was usually done after spending a year on the road having been mentored by a qualified ambulance person. I was coming up to my first year on the road and the question was continually asked by my colleagues from other stations.

When the fateful day did arrive I was on an early shift, seven to three, a Tuesday and working with Matt.

The instructor from HQ arrived early; it was Joe, one of my instructors from my induction course.

‘Nothing to worry about Clive,’ he said. ‘We’ll get the exam out of the way first and then I’ll ride out with you to see what you’ve learnt.’

I nodded. Made him a cup of tea and let him sit in the comfy chair.

Despite everyone telling me this was just a formality, I was nervous. The last couple of weeks I had my nose buried in my books, trying to get everything to stick in my mind. I was sick and tired of reading about the nervous system, the respiratory system, the cardiovascular system, the skeletal system, and every other bloody system that makes up the squidgy bits of humans. Then there were all the signs and symptoms of various illnesses and injuries as well as their treatments. All in all it was pretty much everything I had supposedly learnt. My mind was swimming in facts and figures.

Matt and Joe started yacking as I was dismissed to the office to do the exam. I sat at the desk and began to read through the questions. I was relieved; there was nothing there that I hadn’t read and learnt. I scribbled away, ticked boxes, and twice answered the phone.

The first time it rang:

‘Just checking,’ said control. ‘You doing your Millar today?’

‘Yes, I’m doing it now. I’m half way through the paper.’

‘You stuck on anything? Just ask if you are.’

‘No, I’m fine ta.’

‘Good. Speak to you later. Good luck.’

‘Cheers.’

I carried on until the phone rang a second time.

‘You still doing the exam?’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame. Got an RTA (Road Traffic Accident) but if you’re still writing then I’ll give it to another crew.’

‘Okay, thanks,’ I replied in relief. I had no wish to do an RTA on my Millar day anyway; too much could go wrong with one of them.

I finished the exam a short while later and handed the paper to Joe to mark. He did it there in front of me, slurping his tea and chortling away to himself as his pen flicked and ticked. Occasionally he raised his eyebrows. I kept my eyes fixed on the pen and on him as he worked. He looked up, grinned, and then went back to the marking. Neither me nor Matt said a word.

‘Well,’ said Joe in the end, as he lay my exam paper down. A serious look crossed his face. ‘I have to say….. I’m actually sad to say…..’

His hesitation was just that little bit too long; then he grinned. ‘Congratulations Clive, part one now down. You got ninety five per cent.’

Matt clapped his hands and cheered.

‘Bastard,’ said I. ‘You had me worried there.’

‘All part of the service; got to keep you on your toes.  Let’s hope we get a job quickly now. I’ll have a word with control. Next one is ours.’

It was a strange day; very quiet. Three hours later we hadn’t moved. No jobs….anywhere. Joe was back onto control. ‘Anything will do, anything!’ I heard him say.

An hour later the phone rang. I picked it up. ‘Will an Urgent do you?’

I called through to Joe. ‘They have an Urgent, is that okay?’

‘Yes, thank fuck for that. Anything. I just need to see you with a patient.’

The job was a routine doctor’s admission. I fussed about a bit and did everything I should have done, plus a bit more for emphasis. Joe looked on as Matt and I carted the man out of his house on a chair and made him comfortable in the back of the ambulance. It was then a quick trip to hospital and then back to station.

‘You’ve passed,’ he said on the way back. ‘You can now call yourself an ambulanceman. You might not thank me for it in the end though.’

I felt pleased as punch. More money and a Millar badge on my arm, a laurel wreath, the mark of a qualified ambulanceman!

As soon as we got back to station Joe left. It had been a weird day as there were very few jobs in our area. I watched the clock on the wall, an eight hour shift and most of it spent sitting on my arse waiting for the phone to ring. At half past two, just thirty minutes before the end of my shift the phone rang.

‘RTA, A41, Bourne End. Believed one person trapped. Police and fire informed. You passed now?’

‘Yes,’ I replied, adrenaline already starting to pump.

‘Congratulations,’ replied control. ‘Shame you didn’t get this one earlier.’

Thank fuck I didn’t, I thought as I put the phone down.

Please feel free to leave a comment or thought.

Ambulance memoir: Happy bloody Christmas!

Ambulance memoir.

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive.

1981

Christmas in the ambulance service is just another day. If you are working, that is.

For my first Christmas I was on a late shift – three to eleven – all over the festive period.

Christmas Eve was meant to be a fun time, full of expectation and goodwill to all men type of thing, with Christmas spirit supposedly overflowing. Well, spirit definitely came into the equation, but not of the type normally associated with it. When you sit in the high street and watch Santa Claus beating the proverbial out of an Elf while Tinkerbell is trying to scratch the eyes out of a nun, you tend to have a different perspective. We were waiting for the police to turn up, so we were a little way down the street, watching, trying to blend into the background, which is difficult when you’re sitting in a big white van with blue lights and AMBULANCE written all over it.

The ruck continued. Another fairy was attacking Santa now and was doing her best to corkscrew his head off while he was on the floor being kicked by what appeared to be a very large lady with extremely large breasts; it was the tattoos and shaved head along with the large muscles which indicated that perhaps this lady was a man. He didn’t have very good legs.

The police eventually arrived, piled out of the van and set to with the appropriate amount of vigour. Truncheons were flying, but after a brief couple of minutes some sort of order was restored. We were beckoned forward and after a brief check decided that two of the combatants needed to go to hospital. The difficulty was that they were on opposing sides. Ambulances were tied up everywhere so we had no option but to take both. My colleague nabbed a copper and virtually ordered him to come with us, just in case the two decided to carry on their disagreement in the back of our motor. So there was I, stuck in the back with Santa handcuffed to the stretcher and a roman in a toga, both with cuts and bruises and virtually unconscious through drink.

The policeman and I passed the time chatting while trying not to inhale the alcoholic fumes which were engulfing us. Santa then vomited to add a nice little extra to the aroma.

Once at the hospital we discharged our charges into the hands of the lovely hospital staff who were fighting against the tide, trying to sort out the needy patients from the waste of time ones. We left our two on the floor, a bucket nearby and went out to have a smoke. A few minutes later a nurse came out and asked us if we would like to give them a hand.

Back inside we went to the crash room where Santa was on a trolley. The doctor produced a big long plastic tube and we all grinned, especially the copper. While we held Santa down the tube was unceremoniously rammed down his throat and then about three gallons of water poured down. Santa didn’t like it very much…..but we did!

I will always associate Christmas day with corpses. Every Christmas day I worked I got a Christmas corpse.

It was a quiet shift for us after the night before and we were enjoying snoozing in front of the telly. We got a call to a collapse and motored off into the late afternoon, around tea-time. We were going to Tring, a small town just up the road.

We pulled up outside a little row of Victorian terrace cottages to see a man standing outside the address. The police had been called too and arrived at the same time as us. The man said he was a neighbour and was checking on the old lady who lived there; he had a little bag of Christmas goodies with him to give to her. He hadn’t got a reply and was now concerned as she lived on her own and she hadn’t any relatives that he knew of.  We peered in through the window but saw nothing. After a few minutes of banging on the door we decided that we had to break in. A couple of kicks later the door burst in and we all followed.

The house was dirty with battered furniture and lots of bits and pieces, pots and pans were littered all over the floor with junk everywhere. The carpet was rank. We pushed passed all this and entered the tiny back room.

Sitting in a chair with a rug over her knees was the occupant of the house; a tiny emaciated looking woman with thin grey hair. A single Christmas card was placed on the fire surround, next to an old mantle clock. The room was freezing cold, she had no central heating, the open fire the only source of heat, and that looked like it hadn’t been lit in days. The old lady was dead. I checked and found she had rigor mortis so she had died a good few hours previously, all alone in a cold dank house.

Her neighbour was upset, the bag of goodies still hanging from his hand. He thought to cheer her up with a visit but found that the grim reaper had got there first.

Happy bloody Christmas, I thought to myself as I stood there looking down.

Ambulance memoir: The one-armed bandit

Memories of an Ambulanceman

• I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. In order to maintain their anonymity and privacy I’ve changed the names of individuals and sometimes places, I may have changed some identifying characteristics, so the people described do not necessarily reflect the actual person or persons involved. Incidents and situations are as I recall.
• Swearing happens. I have used, and will use, some words that some people may find offensive

1981

I was working a late shift, three to eleven, and so far it had been quiet. The day crew had put their vehicle away and were ready to go home and we were having a last game of cards before they went. The phone rang, and as attendant, I rushed through to pick it up.

‘Collapse,’ said control. High Street, Berkhampstead. ‘No other details.’

‘Cheers,’ I said, scribbling the location down on a pad.

I was working with Chris, a Leading Ambulancemen, who was in the first line of management. I was lucky that most of the staff at Berko were seasoned ambulancemen, and Chris was another; someone who would teach me a lot over the years and who would become a good friend. He was one of the best ambulancemen in the service.

We walked out leaving the day crew to lock up and jumped into the motor, Chris fired it up and we swung out of the station, then up the road to the high street and turned a right. Blue lights flashing in the dusk we headed off into town.

I was still at the nervous stage, all manner of things flashed through my mind as to what was in store for us. A collapse could mean anything from someone lying dead in the road to someone who just felt a bit iffy. The only thing we could be certain of was that when we did turn up there would be an audience.

As we approached the scene we could see a little group of people gathering around a figure lying on the pavement. A few hands were raised and waving in the gloom. We pulled up and I jumped out. Grabbing my first-aid bag and the portagen I headed towards the group, Chris following closely behind.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked, as I pushed my way through.

‘He just fell over,’ said a man pointing to our patient. ‘He sort of went weak at the knees and then lay down; hasn’t moved since.’

I put down my bag and cylinder and knelt. ‘Hello, can you hear me?’ I said giving him a little shake. I could already see that he was breathing okay. ‘Are you in any pain?’ I sniffed and could smell the distinct whiff of alcohol. The man was small and thin with dark greasy hair, his clothes looked as though they’d come fresh from a midden.

There was no reply. I shook him again and this time I was rewarded with a grunt. I tried again, talking to him and shaking him, trying to get something tangible out of him.

Chris stood at my side with his hands in his pockets and was mumbling to himself. I turned my head to see what he was doing. He was trying not to laugh.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘You’re still fairly new, so you might not have met our friend here. Just don’t take your eyes off of him,’ he advised.

‘Why?’ I asked.

Just then I found out why.

As soon as Chris had stopped talking there was a collective intake of breath as an arm came arcing through the air, aimed right at my head!

I ducked and moved my head just as the limb whizzed by, it came so close I could feel it tickle the hairs on my head.

‘That’s why,’ replied Chris. He moved in quickly, grabbed the errant arm and pinned it down. He then leant forward to speak quietly to our patient.

‘We’ve just about had enough of you.’

‘Fuck off,’ replied our patient.

‘No, you fuck off,’ Chris advised, he then turned to me. ‘This gentleman is one of our regulars and a nasty piece of shit he is too.’

The crowd moved back rapidly leaving just me and Chris within striking distance.

The patient waited a few seconds and then started to scramble to his feet, it was then I noticed that something about the arm looked odd. The man stood and then sort of staggered off, pushing people out of the way.

The air was thick with expletives coming from the onlookers and aimed at our ex-patient, they weren’t amused that they had been fooled and that their entertainment was nothing more than someone taking the piss. I would come across him quite regularly over the coming years; someone who’s only joy in life was to find some way of being the centre of attention, an alcoholic with bloody great chip on his shoulder.

Chris turned to me. ‘Notice anything about the arm?’ he asked, as we watched the drunkard head off down the road.

‘False?’ I enquired.

Chris nodded. ‘Meet the one-armed bandit. Alcoholic and violent. That arm has smacked ambulancemen and coppers alike; and it fucking hurts, I can tell you.’

It was nice to know that even old hands like Chris could sometimes get it wrong!