Strange Goings On

Two-thirds of the way through Circus Oz last night, my sister collapsed.
(Don't worry, she's absolutely fine - it was what happened afterwards that concerns me here.)

CUT TO: Hospital Emergency Waiting Room, 10pm

Once Lauren got some colour back in her cheeks and was talking again we all relaxed a bit, and I started to take some interest in my surroundings. What an odd place - not least because no-one in it looks sick. This appears to be because no matter what's wrong with you when you walk in, by the time someone can see you, you feel fine. Looking around the room it was almost impossible to tell the patients from the family and friends.

The young man sitting next to me was already waiting when we arrived. Just before midnight his mobile rings. "No, still waiting...I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with me. Yeah, you might as well." And then he leaves. Every so often a nurse comes to the door and reads out a long list of patients, none of whom are still there. In the three and a half hours we wait, not a single ambulance comes through to reception.

A middle-aged couple at the other end of the room systematically empty the vending machine, buying one of each product in order along the rows, sitting down together to eat through each packet. Across from us a lone man sorts through his pockets and cleans old receipts and bus tickets from his wallet. I watch the water from a melting ice pack on a girl's ankle pool and spread slowly across the tiles under her chair.

My mother - in khaki socks and dirty sneakers - turns into a fashion critic. "A red bra under that top?" We look around and remind ourselves that emergency is no respecter of decency - the girl next to me is wearing a tailored jacket over candy-striped pyjama pants, another sports novelty Sylvester slippers, a lady comes in barefoot in a beautiful purple ballgown, the woman cradling her bleeding hand (she isn't kept waiting) is in a chef's jacket and chequered trousers, and there are large egg yolk stains on the jumper I've snatched from the back of the car.

Mum visits the bathroom and discovers the cubicles are all painted bright orange. If you weren't feeling sick when you came in you are now. Dad announces it's the same in the men's. I go for the hat-trick and find that the wheelchair-friendly loo is a perfectly tranquil duck-egg blue. There's a news clipping on the noticeboard whose headline screams "Nursing staff slashed."

Lauren seems fully recovered and is reading a copy of 'Who' when she's finally admitted at 1am. Dad and I sit through a Steve Seagal movie (with songs written and performed by the man himself). 20 minutes later she's back. She's fine. Her blood pressure's fine. It was, it seems, a combination of the lights, the music, the smoke, and a contortionist swinging his dislocated right arm around his head. As we leave, the middle-aged couple are opening a packet of Starburst.