I’m in the car. Alone. I’m driving towards the local hospital.
I look down. There’s blood on the passenger seat beside me.
I take a deep breath and keep driving, for what seems like forever. Other cars pass me, filled with normal people doing normal things, like listening to the radio, or picking their nose.
I’m not doing either of those.
At last I reach the end of the motorway, and there it is, my final destination. I turn left at the roundabout, past the sign that says “St Colmcille’s Hospital”, past the front entrance, and past the Accident and Emergency Department.
They cannot help me, not today.
At the very end of the hospital driveway I park, badly, because that’s all I can manage, in front of a sign that reads “Mortuary”.
I climb from the car and, with blood on my hands, go through the door next to the sign.
Could it BE any more Friday the Thirteenth?
Ok, so this morning I went to my doctor for a routine check-up and she took blood samples (that’s the kind of thing that happens when you’ve had stuff happen with your heart). She was concerned that they wouldn’t get to the hospital before the weekend and, since I don’t work on Friday, I offered to deliver them to the laboratory there, a room which is located, as it happens, beside the mortuary.
And the bad parking? Oh, I’ve never been able to park properly.