Today, Joanna kissed me. She smiled. Her lips brushed my cheek. Her green eyes twinkled, but when she lifted her face, I fancied her nose wrinkled.

Do I smell? I wonder. I can’t surely, after this morning’s scrub-down. Joanna left some flowers, red and blue. I didn’t ask her to stay too long.

Nowadays I notice eyes; Betty from Barbados – sad, deep brown, and round; and the Nordic Linda – ice blue, like a glacier in the sunlight. The Doctor, the one they call The Queen Bee; from Hampshire, stocky, efficient, assertive – hazel, I think: a sort of brown with flecks of green. Others come and go, cleaning and swishing. Smiling eyes. subtle shades, light and dark.

There’s just Simon and me in this little side ward. Simon looks pretty rough, thin, coughs a lot. I ask how I am, and everyone says I’m fine, although they look at each other all the same. But I’m OK. All these lovely people, from all over the world, looking after me. There’s only one human race.

-oOo-

Today, Joanna brought me a miniature. Scotch. Cheapo Tesco’s. She wouldn’t know the difference. Nice of her all the same. Conspiratorial fuss about concealing it in the back of the locker, but from the nods and winks, the nurses knew anyway.

A young priest came to see Simon. They muttered together. To me he said hello. I’m not a Catholic, so he didn’t stop. They’re lucky, the Catholics. When they get the Last Rites, they know for sure their time is up, and delight lies ahead. Perhaps I should convert, like Charles The Second, or Tony Blair, perhaps. Perhaps. No, too late. Hypocritical, anyway. In any case can’t see myself calling that boy ‘father’.

I rather fancy The Queen Bee. She doesn’t ask how ‘we’ are doing. Doesn’t treat the nurses like dirt either. She believes we come back as something else, such as a football manager. Sounds attractive. With my luck I’d return as a snail. She listens to my chest. Warm stethoscope. Reckon it means a warm heart, underneath that bustling competence. Her eyes are like the sunny glades of the New Forest – all the colours of autumn.

-oOo-

Today, I fell out of bed. Laughter. In a heap on the floor. Even Simon summoned up a wheezy chuckle. Tried to tell Betty I was going to the bog. In reality trying to get at my scotch. Bollocking from Betty as she heaved me up on to the bed. She’s strong. Eyes like a foal. Ring for a bedpan, dear, she said. Ever tried crapping in a bedpan? Betty calls everyone ‘dear’, keeps me in touch with the scores from the West Indies and reminds me of hot sun, tree-covered hills - Wes Hall at one end and Charlie Griffith at the other.

Joanna brought me some grapes and other fruit – peaches I think. Can’t stand peaches, but looked grateful all the same. She helped me have a short swig from my miniature. Can’t reach it, hidden in the locker. Put it under the pillow – risky but more accessible. Joanna’s eyes are deep green, like the weed on rocks. It’s good of her to visit me, because we’ve nothing to say to each other.

-oOo-

Today, the vicar came round. The C of E mops up all those who don’t know what they are. I thought all women vicars looked like Dawn French, but this one’s bony, angular, with a beaky nose, penetrating, black, eagle eyes and a wicked buccaneer’s smile. We had a few laughs. Can’t remember what about, but I was pleased she didn’t talk about God. Wanted to get into an argument, but couldn’t express myself very well.

Simon is coughing his guts up again. Poor old sod. Never had a fag in his life. Betty said it was because his dad had smoked. I think she’s a fundamentalist – sins of the fathers, sort of thing. If the Health Service burned all its medical books and took up the Old Testament instead, it would save the country billions.

Having difficulty making myself understood. I always babbled anyway, people’s eyes glazed over, even Joanna’s. But now they keep asking me questions after I’ve given them the answers.

-oOo-

Today was quiet. I think it must have been a Sunday. Simon was quiet too. I think I slept.

Betty thinks I brought my troubles, whatever they are, on myself: ‘too much of the booze, dear.’ Still, her deep brown eyes twinkle. She could be right.

There’s a TV high on the wall. I’ve got a remote control, but it doesn’t seem to work. Simon’s not interested in it. I don’t think he can see it. They always turn it off when it’s food time, so I never see a full game. Think it’s the World Cup, judging by the copulatory frenzy whenever a goal is scored. Can’t hear the commentary either, which is a benefit. Inane football commentators keep telling you what you can already see.

-oOo-

Today, blonde Linda woke us up early. Blue eyes, long lashes and hair like a halo. Cheerful ‘good mornings’. I think some sort of General Inspection is due. She left the radio on. Radio 4. Interview with the Taliban. We pay our licence money for the BBC to toady to our enemies. They’d have been pals with Goebbels. Then two Celtic windbags harassing some poor politician, who was just about to start his reply, when they said they’d run out of time and needed to cover the story of some footballer’s broken foot. Serves him right, playing in carpet slippers like they do.

Simon is very quiet. They put the curtains round him. The boy priest came round, looking unnaturally cheerful, and disappeared behind the curtains.

I tried to ask how he was, but they couldn’t understand me. Makes me wild; they don’t listen properly.

It was a General Inspection. Some bloke in pinstripe suit, stinking of fag-smoke, followed round by a crowd of arse-lickers. Called a ‘consultant’ I think. Management or Medical? No way of telling.

-oOo-

Today, I snarled at Joanna. She hadn’t come yesterday. Her emerald eyes smiled at me

and she patted me on the head. She brought me another miniature; but I need an assistant to get the stuff into my mouth. Bloody frustrating. And I think I crapped the bed last night. Rana said ‘poo’ as she did things to my lower parts.

Simon’s bed is empty. They didn’t mention him. They are all too precious by half. He’s snuffed it, of course. Never said goodbye, the rude bastard.

Why are these places so bloody hot? They’re breeding the bugs they kill us off with.

Can’t see the TV too well. Some fat journalist perambulating towards the camera. A walking cliché. Moving his hands in that weird fashion, prattling on about water leaks or something. Some babbling woman squeaked out the weather forecast. Swirling vertiginously above England. They must go on special courses in how to put their full stops in the middles of sentences. Couldn’t understand a word.

-oOo-

Today Joanna produced a straw, plastic, with a bend in it, like for kids’ drinks. Funny though, the stuff doesn’t taste of anything any more. I couldn’t understand what she was on about. She’s not speaking clearly enough, stupid girl. The nurses are not much better; they ought to take elocution lessons

The ceiling has that horrible Artex, done with a hand inside a Tesco bag. Looks like the wrong side of the Moon. Face of Abraham Lincoln in the corner.

The Queen Bee gave me a good going over, though I couldn’t make out what she was doing. Nothing hurts any more. You might have thought that a good thing. But it isn’t.

-oOo-

Today I snarled at Betty. Her deep eyes showed hurt – or was it sympathy? I am not deaf, you know, but I can’t understand everything she says – something about it being a sin to contact the spirits of the dead. I know that; it’s in Leviticus, but so’s eating prawns and badgers.

-oOo-

Today, the vicar came. Her bony-looking hand is surprisingly soft. She murmured some words I didn’t understand. Her black eyes, like a bird of prey, but have a kind of warmth.

I’m on my way out. Can’t see much, can’t hear much. I want to be angry; can’t even summon up a grimace. Getting fed through straws. Nothing tastes of anything. I get the feeling I am grinning stupidly all the time, at nothing in particular. I want to have a row with God, like Jonah; tell him how bloody unfair all this is.

-oOo-

But of course it’s not that unfair. We all have to go sometime. It’s just a little more unfair on some than on others.

I’m OK. I’ve had my fair share.

We are not allowed to communicate with you. If we were, the Universe would make no sense.

Think about it.

You’ll just have to wait your turn.

[Roger] 1480 words [15 June 2006]