Malcolm meets us at the door. A short, perfectly round man in white windcheater and brown slacks, it’s like being met by a giant Christmas pudding.
‘She’s in the sitting room,’ he wheezes, struggling to make himself heard over the homicidal barking of a dog locked away in the kitchen. ‘Poor sow. Probably wants shooting, but you’re the experts.’
He shows us in to his wife Pamela, sitting in an armchair, blood trickling from a gash on the bridge of her nose. She holds her left hand out to the side; the other tragically grips on to a handkerchief whilst her head rests back on a cushion.
‘Oh dear. What’s happened to you, then, Pamela?’ says Frank, walking over.
The dog redoubles its efforts to reach us through the kitchen door, which bows and shudders under the impacts.
‘Elvis! No!’ shouts the man. There is a brief pause. Malcolm smiles and licks his lips. The dog click-clicks away from the door, but then there are dragging sounds, as if it’s coming back with heavy equipment.
‘I fell over, that’s what happened to me,’ says Pamela. ‘Ooh – I’ve never known pain like it.’
‘How come you fell over, Pamela?’
‘I don’t know. I just fell over. I didn’t do it for a laugh, you know.’
‘No – no, I don’t suppose you did. But we need to figure out why you fell. Did you trip? Did you feel dizzy?’
‘I told you. I fell over! I went down, there, in the hall. And I banged my head on the floor and everything.’
‘Were you knocked unconscious?’
‘No – I wasn’t knocked unconscious. I fell over, I banged my head and I cut my nose. It’s bleeding. Can’t you see?’
‘I can see. So it was a trip, then?’
‘Yes. I went dizzy and fell over.’
‘So it was a dizzy spell. And apart from your nose, do you have any other injuries?’
‘What d’you mean, other injuries? I cut my nose. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Yep. We’ll get to the nose in a second. But have you hurt yourself anywhere else? What about if I touch your neck here...’
‘So all round that area, then?’
‘And my knee. And my back. And I can hardly move my hand at all.’
‘Do you have any health problems?’
‘Yes. I hurt my hand.’
‘Just now, when I fell over.’
‘No. I mean – do you have any health problems from before the fall? Do you suffer with anything? Heart problems, breathing problems, that kind of thing?’
‘Okay. I think what we need to do, Pamela, is get you out to the ambulance, clean you up and do some checks, then see what’s best to do after that. Is that all right?’
The dog now appears to be tunnelling his way through the floor.
‘He sounds fun,’ I say to Malcolm. ‘Whatever sort of dog is that, then? Ridgeback?’
‘Elvis? He’s a Bichon Frizz. But you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’
I could go some christmass pud right now...
Hows the husband.. Poor Sow....
Huge hilarious meanie pants...
All the guy needed was a prickly green hat and he would've won first prize.
Def a meanie pants, though. Needless to say he didn't travel in the ambulance - said he'd follow up later.
I'm not a great fan of Xmas pud. It always feels like I'm eating something that's compacted / composted and maybe shouldn't be eaten but used to plant a rose bush in. Or maybe I've just not had the right pudding. x
You make it sound like placenta...
Maybe Australian Pud is less fermented??
I'd do anything for custard....
Custard's def the way forward. I'll just have that.
It is when I read posts like this that I realise why ambulance people always seem so grateful that I offer to list a summary of my medical conditions and can spell out the names of all my numerous regular medications even when I'm full of morphine and entonox!
It's always such a bonus when you get a list like that, Sarah. Not least because you don't have to rummage through a big tupperware box of pills to find out what they're taking...!
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