And in the April of this year, going through it properly with the woman I see on Thursdays, I got to something worse than pride.
If I had knocked, it would have been me doing it.
And then whatever happened after would be a thing I had asked for, at seventy-two, with him free to say no.
Whereas a corridor and a chart is nobody’s fault.
So I spent eleven months walking past a house, waiting for an accident that I was quietly arranging, because an accident does not require you to be the one who asked.
And four streets away, a man was doing the same thing from a bed.
The hospital.
And it is worse than that, and I am going to put it down.
There are two hospitals within twenty minutes of Barrowmere.
I applied to both in the May of 2024, which is correct and which anybody would do.
