Close To Death

We live near the John Radcliffe Hospital now. Our flat is only five minutes' walk away, which is a real comfort. It means that if we ever get seriously injured, help isn't far away.

We probably wouldn't even need to phone for an ambulance. And I'm very grateful about that. I'd hate to have to call an ambulance - it would be really embarrassing. I don't even like phoning for a taxi. There's something emasculating about asking someone to take you somewhere. It's an admission of impotence. That's why I never take taxis, trams, or aeroplanes. I don't want to admit to BA that I'm incapable of traversing the Atlantic under my own steam.

An ambulance is even worse than normal transport. Not only are you in someone else's vehicle, dependent on their skills, but you are - most likely - disgusting. No-one gets in an ambulance when they're neat and tidy. Maybe a coma would be OK, but there would probably still be things leaking and dribbling. Retention of body contents becomes secondary to the retention of life. There might be blood, tears, entrails; even filthy bullets falling out of you. It would be mortifying. Literally.

I don't even like spilling milkshake in someone else's car. I've never actually done that, but I worry about it all the time.

So I'm hugely comforted by the closeness of the hospital. Even if our injuries are severe, we should be able to drag ourselves along to A&E in only a few hours.

It does have a downside, though. Sometimes, we get the bus home. (You'll notice that I didn't include buses in my list of never-taken transport. That's because I didn't want to contradict myself. I changed it to "trams", and you were none-the-wiser.)

The stop at which we get off is one of the last on the route. The bus's final stop is at the hospital. I always hope that people will get off before us, or at our stop AT THE LATEST. If they don't, I can be reasonably sure that they're going to the hospital and probably have a terminal disease.

I saw someone I know on the bus last week. I know her, but I don't know know her. I know her name and face. As the bus journey neared its end, I began to get worried. I'd never seen her on the bus before, and our stop was getting closer. She didn't move. When we finally disembarked (or "alighted", for fans of digraphs), she was still there, sitting in her seat, staring straight ahead, her handbag clutched to her chest, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide and watery, her hands trembling, her mobile phone on silent.

She rode on.

On to the hospital. Or one of the other stops before it.

She's probably already dead, I thought, later that evening.

But she wasn't dead. And still isn't. I saw her on the bus after that. She must live round there. Also, I made up the stuff about the handbag and the breathing and the eyes and trembling and phone. But still, for a minute, I was quite concerned that she might be heading straight to the morgue. Do not pass go. Do not collect £200. It's useless. Coroners don't accept tips.

I have too much empathy - that's my problem. I can't be on a bus without thinking everyone else is at death's door. That's empathy, right? Or is it that other thing?

Sometimes we hear sirens. They're not a nuisance; they're a joyous reminder. They remind us that we're not in an ambulance.

There but for the grace of God go we: making small-talk to the paramedics, trying to retain our dignity amidst all the coughed-up tongues.