Candida James never was one for needles <—> And this one looking very long <—> And very very sharp <—>
‘Oh he vill sleep like ze liddle baby,’ titters the lady Doctor Astrid Thysson with a grim smile.
Riding up front in the ambulance over the pot-holes of London first-class bumpety fun. The treatment confusing. But feet up in Sister Gradgrind’s office with the radio blaring and a nice cup of tea Candida James doesn’t like to make a fuss.
The junior-doctor-in-charge (on cocaine and a forty-eight hour stretch) happy for Doctor Thysson (now el Presidenté’s Chief Medical Officer and proudly sporting her new black uniform) to take the lead. The whitewashed sluice-rooms are a warzone. And proper emergency cases are waiting.
Doctor Thysson, remarkably cheerful, recommends a series of phosphate enemas, the patient turning a touch toxaemic <—> followed by ice-cube bedbaths <—> hourly <—>
Sister Gradgrind, nodding sagely, feels deeply that a few thousand volts administered to the testicles stands a fair chance of reviving the cadaver <—>
The two angels of mercy work over a course of treatment bespoked to ensure Archie’s vacation is a short sharp shock <—> And one he will remember <—>
For many a howling moon to come.
Yes. The Sister of Casualty is pleased to see Archie. Very pleased indeed.
*****