RDB describes Dan-O’s words of wisdom, Judas once said something similar.

“Slow down - in your career you’ll treat thousands of patients. There is no need to do them all today.”

My partner is so new and young, you can still see where the cable ties held her fast in er packaging when they delivered her to station, smiling out at us behind the cellophane, her accessories and uniform all in their own heat moulded plastic cocoon.

We’re called to a hotel, very posh, for a female “diabetic, confused, not talking”. We haul everything up with us, including the defib, electronic prf and a bag of liquid glucose to inject into her veins. These jobs are pretty straight forward; we push their blood sugar levels up, give them some advice on keeping safe and leave the patient in the care of someone responsible.

The hotel is tall, I don’t want to be running back to the vehicle, I’ll take the lot, thankyou.

Even the paperwork necessary to not transport her.

In the room we meet two women in plush bathrobes, one looking a little dishevelled and sheepish. Sweaty and tired, she woke her friend from sleep by trashing and grunting in her sleep. The friends acted fast, helping her to drink Lucozade which had her rapidly compos mentis again.

There is nothing for us to do but check her blood again and agree that she should stay here with her girlfriends. No sense in ruining the girls weekend away unnecessarily. I phone down to reception for some toast and jam for the patient and, on leaving, arrange with the concierge to have housekeeping swing by to change her sheets.

The service is, as one would expect, impeccable. I fantasise about having a concierge service at EVERY job.

“Hello? Concierge? He’s shat himself again, can you have someone scrub the ambulance down for us? Also…I think he might have needles in his pockets, pat him down, won’t you? Coffee for two while we wait? Why not.”

We’re riding the lift down to the ground floor when my partner shakes her head.
“Thats great, isn’t it?”

“The hotel?”

“No, that woman. I hope I’m still able to go out and enjoy life when I’m her age. That’s just incredible, her and all her mates just out and having a good time. It’s sweet, really, isn’t it?”

I draw breath…feel old…and exhale silently.

The patient is 42.

I thought I could spin a line or two, but Judas has, twice, beaten my wordsmithery into the ground.

I give you two bon mots. The third I couldn’t possibly publish, for the sake of Judas himself.

I’m stepping out of my car when Judas pulls up alongside me.

“Alright, JI?”
“Mate.”
“I’m on with you today, yeah?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll be honest, Judas, I’m need a nice, steady day.”

He stares at me.

Sucks his teeth.

“Steady? I don’t think we’ll be going that fast…”

-

On the same shift, we’re discussing new starts. This is a vital part of the Station’s operation, it gives the staff an opportunity to warn each other about new members of staff who are, perhaps, not quite as Johnny-on-the-spot as one might wish.

Judas sums one up beautifully.

“She’s a nice enough lassie, but fucking hell, I was driving when I was in the back.”

We must take a moment to wave at Mal (*waves* Hi Mal!) who is down at College currently on his Techy course. Mal is a friend of FlatMateBam and he came over for dinner some months ago to discuss the job and whether or not he fancied it.

We congratulate him on getting a place at College and are confident he’ll do just fine, he was wandering around Station the other day while I was eating my porridge and looked very official in his training blues.

Bam reports that he has found himself in that charming frame of mind where he is Just. So. Excited. about learning new things and wants to share his new found knowledge with EVERYONE.

This week, apparently, Bam and Mal were at a party and Mal was complaining that, while they got to practice intramuscular injections on oranges, he was concerned that he didn’t get a chance to stick a real person before he did it in anger.

The conversation turned to the limitations of practicing on one’s colleagues and Bam mentioned that while I was on my paramedic course, she’d offered her arms up for me to practice IV access.

What she meant to say was:

“While Kal was doing his para course? I said he could practice putting cannulas in me.”

Bam, however, was a little pissed.

And said.

“While Kal was doing his para course? I said he could practice putting catheters in me.”

We’re close.

But not that close.

“Male collapsed” turns out (on arrival and with some by-stander discussion) to be one of our regulars who “Just stepped off the kerb and laid down in the street”

“I was trying to throw myself under a bus,” he whines “But there weren’t any coming.”

I have to say it.

“You know, pal, if you’re gonna throw yourself under a bus? You’ve gotta check the timetable.”

He nods sagely, the empty vodka bottles in his pocket rattling and clinking against themselves.

Or “You are the three stupidest people I’ve ever met”

Exhibit one - Father to ten year old son, who is silently weeping as we wheel his grandmother out to the vehicle - “Oh for fuck’s sake…are you going to be a Jessie all your life?”

Exhibit two - Couple in the cinema sitting behind our fitting patient, talking to the patient’s sister -”If you can’t keep her under control, you shouldn’t bring her out.”

Exhibit three -Father of emphysemic woman - “This is disgusting, you people should do something about this.” - “You know that emphysema is a chronic condition, sir? It’s not as though we’ve a box of medicine that we’re just not giving her.” - “I *know* that… You should still fix it.”

“Take a seat here, the nurse will see you shortly.  Don’t move from this chair.”

“Why are you being so patronising?”

The last of my patience runs out of the lace holes in my boots.

“Because you’re acting like a ten year old.”

“Am not.”

“You guys are always so cagey about decompressing tension pneumothoraces…why?  Any shell-suited arsehole can stick a blade between someone’s ribs, at least you’ve been trained to do it!  And once you HAVE done it, we can’t prove that the patient DIDN’T have a pneumo!”

Cycling around the City Centre during the Fringe Festival carries with it the not unpleasant task of being stopped by members of the public and asked about a variety of subjects.  “Where is…”  “How do I get to…” “Is there someplace I can…”

Then we have the various social fringe members, or radges, jakes and bams as we affectionately refer to them.

These guys tend to lean towards feigning agonising chest pain and staggering in front of me in a hilarious comedy stylee, shouting “Paramedic!” as I cycle past (well done, do you shout “Wood!” at carpenter vans as they pass?) or asking me if I’ve got any Vallies going free.

Finally there are the young guys who are suffering from astonishingly minor ailments, yet manage to make them out to be life-threatening, all while suggesting that it falls beyond my clinical ability.

These include:

“My friend nipped me, and now I’ve got a bruise.  Are you medically trained, or just on a bike?”

and

“My knee makes a clicking noise.  I don’t suppose you know what that means, do you?”

Yes.  It means you don’t need an ambulance.  Ta dah!

(BTW?  I’ve been asked “Are you medical, or a paramedic?” a number of times.  Can anyone explain what the hell these people could possibly mean?)

On watching Derren Brown on TV ask for “someone who’s medically trained” and chatting to two volunteers.

“And what do you do?”
“I’m a physiotherapist.”
“And you?”
“Cabin crew.”