Songs My Mother Taught Me; A Collection Of Short Stories

Angelo

I realise that I'm dreaming several seconds before I open my eyes.

There's the buzz of my pager, of course, tucked in some deep pocket. But the thing that most convinces me that I'm not fully conscious is the fact that I'm holding up a Quidditch world cup while Kayne West is dancing next to me.

Even sleeping me is too cynical to just go along with this.

There is a split-second, a tiny beat in time where I try to convince myself that I can stay in Kanye-Quidditch world before my mobile starts ringing too.

My fingers grope at my pocket to grab my phone, just as my other hand closes around a surprisingly real Quidditch cup handle.

"Dr Rivardi?" Our newest receptionist, Caitlyn, is blessed with many things but a soothing voice isn't one of them and I wince against the shrillness of a her tone.

"Mmmm?" What I wouldn't give for a few seconds longer of sleep. Just a minute or two.

"Dr Jones said I had to call you." There's an authoritative tone to her voice that maybe goes a little beyond her role, but I'm not the type to get wound up by things like that. "You're late; again! Dr Jones said that we're already two down in A&E this morning-"

"Shit-" I groan.

"You're sleeping, weren't you?" She accuses.

"No. I was just heading into the hospital." I open my eyes, finally, to see that the Quidditch cup handle I've been grasping was actually my car gearstick.

"I can see your car from here." Caitlyn sighs and there's genuine sympathy in the sound. "You didn't make it out of the car park again last night, did you?"

"Hey, at least I made it to the car, that's the first time this week I've seen the outside of the hospital. It's not a bad view out here. There's this big yellow thing in the sky, I'm sure I have a distant memory of seeing it sometime before-"

She laughs, but I can hear the concern. Despite her bluff she's a nice girl, the kind my Italian grandmother would try and push me towards relentlessly.

"Dr Jones needs you on the floor. We've got a pregnant women hemorrhaging, a suspected case of mumps-"

"Any chance of a cup of coffee?" I rub the crick in my neck, grimacing at the stab of pain that tells me I slept awkwardly and am going to have to suffer twinges all day to remind me.

"I can do one better than just coffee, I've got some croissants fresh from the canteen..."

"Wow, I'm getting turned on."

I pull the mirror round so that I can look at my face, the closest I'm going to get to "getting ready for work". The steering wheel has left an imprint on my face and bags under my eyes say that I haven't slept more than 4 hours at a time in forever... Which I haven't. My pager buzzes again and I can see that Alec, the infamous Dr Jones, has sent me an increasingly angry series of messages. Obviously the 'No Swearing On Staff Communication Media' email we all got last month has had no effect on him, if the last; Where the fuck are you???? is anything to go by.

I grab my toothbrush and toothpaste, the set I jokingly call my spare, even though this one is used far more frequently than the one I keep at home.

Still, at least I'm already at work and don't have to drive to get here.

Isn't that just wonderful?

†††††

As it happens, I get to look at the croissant and take a freezing mouthful of the coffee before that gets forgotten too. I vaguely wonder how many thousand cups of coffee are wasted in hospitals every day. You know you spend too much time in this place when the insipid crap that passes for coffee from the vending machines starts to taste ok.