Читать книгу William Walker’s First Year of Marriage: A Horror Story - Matt Rudd - Страница 68

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Isabel sent straight from doctor’s appointment to hospital. Something gynaecological. Something about an operation…

She called me from the hospital, sounded very shaky. Couldn’t talk because mobiles are banned and she’d run out of coins. Just starting to explain what was wrong when the beeps started. Cut off saying, ‘Hopefully the doctor will…’ beep, beep, beep.

Took ages to get from work to the hospital because of the sodding Northern Line. Absolutely the worst hour of my life. I love her so much. Realised by King’s Cross that if I lost her I would never recover. Wouldn’t want to. Realised by Camden Town that I even loved her for her goat’s milk and her ridiculous yoga. Promised by Archway I would never argue with her again.

Three a.m. now. She has a Bartholin’s cyst, which means her bits, or more specifically one bit, has swollen like an orang-utan’s bottom. They wheeled her away an hour ago just like they do in Casualty, which was dreadful. Wanted to follow her through the flappy doors but the big, scary nurse-bitch wouldn’t let me. Nice little nurse has let me stay in the ward with the groaning old ladies. One is on morphine, in and out of consciousness, muttering wildly.

Will buy Isabel an enormous bunch of flowers tomorrow.

Assuming I can get to the flower shop, what with the dead leg that won’t go away. Apparently, I was asleep for a whole two hours in the metal chair by Isabel’s bed. Couldn’t feel my leg at all when I woke up. Actually thought I might have permanently paralysed myself, it took so long to recover. Is that possible? Will check on Wikipedia.

Isabel was very worried. ‘Poor you,’ she said when I woke. ‘You look so tired.’

She’s amazing. Not even Florence Nightingale would have been worrying about my dead leg if her private parts looked like a monkey’s arse.