Читать книгу More Blood, More Sweat and Another Cup of Tea - Tom Reynolds - Страница 28

First off…

…Bah humbug.

(It’s not just for Christmas.)

I’ve just finished with a job that makes me question this whole ‘love’ idea.

I had been sent to an alcoholic who had just had an epileptic fit and I arrived to find his fiancée looking very worried.

She told me, ‘I’ve known him for ten months and I’ve only seen him fit once, so I’m afraid I got scared and called for an ambulance.’

I reassured her that this wasn’t a problem and that she had done the right thing.

I looked after the patient, it was an easy job, and I spent some time waiting for the ambulance to arrive. (I was ‘single’, so I had been asked to work on the FRU again; the alternative was to work out of Waterloo station.)

I looked around the room they were staying in. It was not what you would call ‘homely’; it was the typical house of a young alcoholic (he was the same age as me). Cans of cheap cider were lying around the place, there was no furniture apart from a settee and a TV, empty cigarette packets littered the floor and the pictures hadn’t been mounted on the walls.

There was an axe leaning against the fireplace.

His fiancée was young and not obviously unattractive, she didn’t seem particularly stupid and she didn’t look like a fellow alcoholic. So I was confused as to why she would want to marry an alcoholic.

I’m afraid it just befuddles me as to how you can love someone who loves their next drink more than you. In any partnership you will come second to an open bottle of cider.

I just don’t understand.