Posted in Chutzpah


Usually the surgeons stopped talking,
adopted a rarefied silence if I was in the ward office
beginning to speak then seeing the hired help
upstairs downstairs –
the Catering Manager,
the food dude one of the theatre nurses called me.
Often called to the station for diets, special requirements etc et
and often … “ Mrs Johnston  in 103,” then tiered silence.
But this one didn’t, new perhaps
or secure that nothing was personal or confidential –
a threesome -surgeon, patient and nurse …
“ So,
we need to keep you in a couple of extra days,”
cut to charge nurse …. “ have you got space – yes
back to patient, “ will your insurer be okay?
And what about work?
No probs mate just give me one of those notes you guys write
Okay Saville Row tailored, perfectly voweled
“ two extra nights
notification to the insurer
and …… I’ll do one of those notes us guys write.”



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.