Lucy's Bedroom

I Love Your Cock

In a minor spasm of domesticity I made fairy cakes yesterday and iced a letter on each one so that they spelled I LOVE YOUR COCK. In an equally minor spasm of abstraction, D found the cake tin with the post-it note stuck on top and took it to work to share, without having looked inside. I understand he shuffled them and quickly ate the K.

The Earth Moves For Lucy

So, what did you do during the earthquake? For the benefit of our overseas readers, earthquakes in Britain are of sufficient rarity to elicit national comment. The length and breadth of the country this morning, people were telling each other the story of how their wardrobe door swung open. I think this is a sign of moral degeneracy. People didn't complain about their wardrobe doors during the Blitz. I woke up when the tremor came, thought, "Oh look, an earthquake. I wonder if I should get out of bed? Probably no need." And then I went back to sleep, which is the British way of coping. In the morning, D was convinced I was making it up to annoy him. It wasn't until he got to work that he sent me a text that read: 'You're right. Several packets of sterilized gauze were dislodged from a shelf in the store room. We can only be thankful nobody was standing underneath at the time.'

More rental particulars arrived in this morning's post. I keep reading in the paper that the rental market is getting difficult for landlords and they have to drop their prices in order to let their properties. Well it's not true in North London. Two of today's flats are in Harrow, which has all the soul of a supermarket and is well outside the area we specified to the agent. I'm not going to bother seeing those. Another is a dump -everything about it looks grubby. The last one is over the top end of our price range, about 2/3 the size of our current flat and on one of the main arterial roads into London from the north.

I spend my lunch hour making a poster with a picture of my cat looking fluffy and an arrow that says, 'Look at the cat!' Underneath I write, 'I will be homeless unless my humans can find a flat to rent. Do you know of somewhere I could live?' I make lots of copies and pin them on all the notice boards by coffee machines and photocopiers. Even as I do it I feel ashamed that I'm stooping to such saccharine depths to get people's attention.

Don't Try This At Home

In an early concession to the fact that I have to pack up all my belongings and move again, I have decided to rationalise my sex toys. I have an embarrassing number of these, many of them good friends to me in the past but now neglected or broken. I decide that the new, slimmed-down battery of toys should comprise: an 8-inch pink rubbery vibrator; a slim, clear, pulsing anal vibe; and a black vinyl crop with a paddle tip. D is not pleased as this means I’m getting rid of a carbon fibre cane (because it fucking hurts) and the magic wand vibe (too intense and bullying). Also, I’ve completely forgotten about the ball gag, which I do in fact want to keep but have now handed him as a bargaining tool. Actually, I’m dignifying the whole process by describing it as ‘bargaining’. ‘Screaming’, ‘running’ and ‘tickling’ would all be better adjectives. And in the end I only succeed in getting rid of vibrators that are actually broken (and agreeing to the purchase of handcuffs).

All this raises a new problem. How does one safely and ethically dispose of a vibrator? We have a box for recycled plastic but I don’t really want to put them in there for the neighbours to stare at. We’re not supposed to put them in with the normal rubbish and I don’t want to call the Local Authority ‘Trashbusters’ hotline for advice.

Clearly, the only thing for it is to eviscerate them, stuff them with fireworks, and set light to them. Now this wasn’t my idea and I’m certain we’re both going to be blinded by flying shards of plastic. D is more sanguine. “No, no, no. They’ll go up before they go bang.” Nevertheless, we run and hide behind the shed once the blue touch paper has been lit and make ‘Ooh’ and ‘Ahh’ noises as a series of vibrators burst explosively (in a way they never did when used for their original purpose) over the night sky of Crouch End.

From Humble Beginnings

Diablo Cody’s just won an Oscar. Some of us remember her as a humble sex phone worker and blogger on The Pussy Ranch (long ago cyber-vandalised I’m afraid) where she was a helpful provider of phone sex etiquette tips…

Note to callers: If you’re sharing an elaborate gay buttfuck fantasy with me, don’t randomly interject “Oh, and while the one guy is fucking me up the ass, I want Jennifer Love Hewitt to suck my dick.” I will bust a gut laughing, so don’t act all wounded about it.

In an awkward attempt to transition to the action-packed phase of our interaction, I will say, “So, what do you like to do for fun?”

You always — always! — reply, “You.”

Excuse me while I heave with laughter. I’ve never heard anything quite so clever! Except, you know, the last four guys said the exact same thing.

Variations on this reply include “Green-eyed blondes,” “Hot chicks,” or, my personal favorite, “Watch girls suck my cock.”

Allow me to explain something: When I asked you what you like to do, I was using the implied imperfective tense of the verb. As in, “What do you like to do, as an ongoing thing, meaning something you have actually done.” I didn’t say “What would you like to do?” I didn’t say, “In a perfect world, where you look like Heath Ledger and don’t live with your mother, what might you enjoy doing?

Hotel World

So I didn’t tell you about Leeds, where I spent last week sifting through an archive of files in dusty boxes. I’ve developed a cough which I think is caused by my imagination. It’s like when you get an eyelash in your eye and even after it’s gone you think you can still feel it. I think I can still feel dust in my throat. However menial my task, I work for a company with more money than sense (I’m not sure how much that is – in my case it would be about £4.37) and I’ve been wallowing in considerable luxury in a hotel that used to be the Leeds Liberal Club. As a result I am now entirely dissatisfied that my flat doesn’t have an oak paneled lobby with a sweeping staircase and stained glass windows. Also, there are no little packets of Earl Grey tea in my bedroom and I can’t get kippers for breakfast just by hanging a note on the doorknob.

I complain about this to D, who lifts his head wearily from between my thighs and points out that being at home has the compensation of other services the hotel doesn’t provide. I actually bet that a well-run hotel will arrange exactly this service for you if you’re brave enough to ask. I’ve been passing my evenings reading The Great Shark Hunt by Hunter S Thompson and on his travels he always seems to encounter a hall porter who, for a rolled up note of sufficiently high denomination, will deliver a tray of cocktails, three jugs of strong black coffee and the local chemist’s entire supply of Dexedrine in a brown paper bag. I’m sure that if I’d slipped a twenty to one of the acne-ridden teenage boys on the night desk and whispered, “Need you boys to send up someone who knows how to give a pussy a good licking, if you know what I mean…” Then tapped the side of my nose conspiratorially and ambled away, ten minutes later they’d have sent George Clooney up to my room.

Instead, I’ve had to make do with furious hotel fantasising. Don’t look at me all beady-eyed like that. You know exactly what I mean. You’ve been all alone in a hotel room, you’ve flicked through all the channels on the TV, opened all the drawers, stolen the sewing kit, written rude words in the Gideon Bible and realised that the pay-per-view movie is a choice between two films both starring Adam Sandler. It’s time to lie back on the king-sized bed (diagonally, to get your money’s worth out of it), let your fingers wander and imagine sitting in the bar downstairs in your tiniest, sluttiest dress, picking up some anonymous stranger, bringing him back to the room and letting him tie you to the bed, whip you with his belt, fuck you up the arse and cum in your face before he rifles through your handbag, steals your money and cards, takes a photo of you splayed and naked and cum-covered that he sends to everyone on your phone list before leaving you, stopping only to put the ‘Please Service This Room’ notice on your door so that in the morning, mmm here comes the maid and it looks like her overall’s a little tight, certainly too tight to fit any underwear beneath it, and oh! whatever is she doing with that feather duster…No? Just me then.

There was a small amount of excitement on Thursday night when the hotel’s fire alarms went off in the middle of the night and we all trooped downstairs. In my sleepiness, I put on my knickers, a coat, odd socks and trainers then stood on the pavement watching firemen dash into the building and thinking, “Hey, if the building burns down with all my clothes, money and phone inside it, what will I do in a city where I don’t know anyone in just my knickers” (answers on a postcard please). Luckily it was a false alarm and we were all able to troop back in again, leaving me able to balance the merits of firemen bursting through my hotel bedroom door with an axe and discovering me sprawled, naked and masturbating across the bed against making my way on foot to the Leeds office and throwing myself on the mercy of the security guards (who would, needless to say, gang bang me savagely in the marble lobby of the building, capturing the scene on the security cameras for their later enjoyment).

Anyway, back in London, today’s news is we’ve broken our bed. Luckily, the bit that’s broken is the iron bed-frame which is modern and can be replaced, unlike the brass ends which are Victorian and a family heirloom. This brings our total pieces of furniture broken during sex to four (this bed, one of the kitchen stools that cracked while I was bent over it, the glass knob on a chest of drawers that came off when I yanked really hard on the scarf tied round my ankle because D was tickling me and the sun lounger that collapsed under our combined weight).

So Tightly I Can't Even Squeak

We’re flat hunting again. It feels like we’ve only been in this one for 10 minutes but actually it’s over 6 months so our protected tenancy is up and our landlady wants to sell the house. We’ve been talking about buying somewhere. My brother and I inherited our great aunt’s house which is currently under offer and would give us each enough money respectively to afford London and Oxford prices. But we’d decided to put off buying for a bit because D doesn’t know where he’s going to be working after August. Junior doctors rotate roles so that they get a breadth of experience and make an informed decision about what they want to specialise in. D’s applying for anaesthetist roles, initially in London but he might have to take whatever he can get. So we’re looking at rentals again.

Today’s is in Muswell Hill. Like our current place, it’s a Victorian house split into two flats, but this time it’s the upstairs flat so we wouldn’t have the benefit of the garden but we would have an extra room. It’s really very nice, with a big, airy sitting room that has a view of Alexandra Palace, a kitchen that’s big enough for a dining table and a quiet bedroom overlooking the garden. The extra room is in the attic – it’s an original attic room rather than a squeezed-in conversion, but it’s been extended under the roof eaves. So you go up a flight of stairs and into a perfectly normal bedroom with a fireplace and a sash window but with one wall missing and a ceiling that slopes away with a skylight. Where the room meets the extension, the roof beam has been exposed and one upright beam supports it. We stand staring at it, smiling politely while the agent points out original features and not catching each other’s eye because we each know the other is thinking, “Ooh, beams…”

We don’t make a decision, and we tell each other it’s because this is the first place we’ve seen but actually it’s because we don’t like not knowing what will happen after August. In October I shall be back at university and if D’s next job is outside London we’ll be apart. Instead we go for quite a long walk, off to the west, through Coldfall Wood and Islington Cemetery. It’s drizzling, fine misty rain that soaks you through before you’ve realised it, and soon we both have hair plastered to our faces and wet, heavy coats. We shelter under a tree. (“It’s a hornbeam” I say confidently. I have no idea what a hornbeam is but neither does anyone else so I’m not likely to be contradicted. In the same way you can point at a bird and say, “Oh look, it’s a chaffinch.” Unless it’s actually an ostrich, nobody’s going to argue.) We kiss leaning against the trunk while I run my thumbnail along his stiffening cock through his jeans. He starts to laugh.

“What?  What is it?  What’s funny?”

“Those beams!”

“Perfectly normal architectural features with absolutely no comic or bondage potential…”

He wraps his arm tighter round my waist and jerks me closer to him, making me gasp. His cock is digging into my belly now, his lips almost touching mine as he whispers.

“When I get you home, I’m going to tie you up so tightly you won’t even be able to squeak. I’m going to twist your arms and legs until you’re aching and stiff and exposed. I’m going to pull the rope tight until your breathing is shallow and the knots dig into your flesh.”

His hand is under my skirt now, cupping my pussy through tights and knickers, grinding the heel of his hand against it while I bite my lip and whimper.

“I’m going to torture you. I’m going to whip you and fuck you and slide your vibe into every crevice of your body, every wet fold of your cunt and never, never let you cum.”

I let out a sort of sobbing gasp and realise I’ve been holding my breath. I kiss him, plunging my tongue into his mouth, fighting against his tongue, mouthing “Yes, yes”. We stumble back onto the pathway and hold hands while we run out onto the street. On the bus I pretend to look out of the window at the rain but I can feel him watching me. I want to turn to him and say something but I’m not sure what. “Let’s get married?” “Let’s take the money from the house sale and run away until it’s all spent?” “Let’s just stay on this bus until the end of the line then get on another then another until we’ve travelled as far as we can?” When I finally look at him, he just smiles ruefully and says, “I know”. And we kiss the rest of the way home.

Nasty Girl

I was still asleep right up to the point that D knelt up on the bed, straddling my face with his cock bobbing against my lips. Still rubbing the sleep from my eyes I opened my mouth and swallowed the head of his cock, sucking it firmly and fluttering my tongue against it. I lifted my head off the pillow to swallow him deeper but he pulled back, grabbing my shoulder and dragging me over the edge of the bed until my head hung down. He pressed his cock against my lips, forcing it in and slowly sliding it down my throat while I wriggled and struggled to swallow it, gagging a little but taking it all the way down until his balls pressed against my nose. He squeezed my tits, kneading them roughly as he started to fuck my throat. Spluttering and gasping I slid my fingers into my slit, rubbing my clit and moaning into his cock as he fucked faster, giving my tits sharp little smacks.

He pulled out, saliva trailing from the tip of his cock and flopping onto my face. He put his hand behind my head and lifted it, bending to kiss me upside down. I mumbled, “Fuck me!” into his kiss. He stopped, looking down at me, amused.

“What was that, Lucy?”

A bit pink, I whispered, “Fuck me?”

“What was that?  I can’t hear you Lucy.”

“FUCK ME!”

“OK, don’t frighten the neighbours.”

He flipped me back onto the bed, lying half on my side, half on my face, my leg drawn up as he stuffed his cock into my cunt, ploughing hard into it, the whole bed shaking. He slid one hand up to my neck, gripping me under the chin, kissing and biting my neck and grunting as he fucked. I buried my fingers in the folds of my slit again, gasping and shivering as I started to cum against his pounding cock.

He froze, his cock deep inside me, and I thought he was about to cum but then realised he was gritting his teeth, trying not to cum yet, saving it up. As my breathing slowed and I sucked my fingers clean he rolled me onto my back, kneeling up and lifting my bum off the bed. He dripped a few drops of lube down the crack of my arse, sliding his finger tip into my arsehole while I wriggled happily.

“Are you going to ask nicely again, Lucy?”

I grinned up at him, catching my breath and making little ‘ooh!’ sounds as his finger slowly rotated and explored inside me. 

“Fuck me up the arse you horny bastard!”

“I don’t think I should.  It’s not nice.”

“Fuck me up the arse or I’ll start shouting again and then the neighbours will come round and arrest you for molesting a teenage girl.”

He thought about his for a moment, his finger sliding in and out of my hole.

“So my choice is between molesting a teenage girl and not getting into trouble or not molesting a teenage girl but getting into trouble? That’s not much of a dilemma, Lu…”

And, gripping my buttocks, he lifted me, my back arching off the bed as he forced his cock into my arsehole, making me hiss and gasp between clenched teeth as his cock stretched me open. With my feet in the air, he slid his hands to my ankles, spreading them wider and pressing them down. He turned his head as he buggered me, biting my calf and groaning as his spunk shot into me, shuddering as spurt after spurt flooded my arse.

He pulled out and I wrapped my arm round the back of my knees, spreading my buttocks with the fingers of one hand and we watched as his spunk dripped from my hole. He let it drip onto his fingers then held them over my open mouth as his cum dripped onto my tongue and trickled down my throat. I started to cough and laugh as he grinned down at me. “You nasty girl!”

Now, everyone knows nasty girls need a good spanking and I got a very good one. A nice, long, slow hand-spanking, bent over his knee with my flesh getting pinker and hotter all across my bum and thighs and pussy. By the time he finally let me slither off his knee onto the floor, my cunt was soaking and my clit stiff and throbbing. I reached out to wrap my fingers around his cock and he stopped me.

“Ah!  Hands behind your back young lady.”

With a sigh, I clasped my hands and stretched my neck out, licking his cock slowly from balls to tip, over and over, varying the angle, pressing my lips against his balls and sucking gently, swirling the tip of my tongue into the slit of his cock. As I knelt up and shifted, my thighs rubbed together, slick with cunt juice. I sucked the head of his cock, letting it pop from between my lips, catching it again, sucking harder. I slid my tongue down to his balls, lapping them and sucking them into my mouth. Peering up at D I could see him propped on his elbows, his head back, staring at the ceiling. I wriggled my tongue down towards his arsehole and he gasped, then lay flat on the bed, his feet drawn up and his thighs parted.

Forgetting about keeping my hands clasped, I folded my fingers around his shaft as I pressed my tongue into his arsehole, licking its rim and lapping it, sometimes stopping to suck on his balls while I tickled his hole with my fingertip. All the time I circled my fingers tightly round his cock, forcing them firmly down over its head, fucking it with my fist. Sliding my finger in deeper I felt for the nub of his prostrate, rubbing it with speedy, fluttering motions as he arched his back and with a shout sprayed spunk in an arc through the air, splattering his belly and chest and face – and the bed and the carpet – with milky cum.

For a second the room was silent and we were still, then we both began to laugh and I crawled on top of him, lapping the cum off his skin and kissing him – a big, sloppy, spunky kiss.

He’s asleep now and I’ve been out shopping and done domestic things (like throwing away the teetering pile of take-away containers that’s built up in my absence) but I’ve undressed and put on my robe again because I’m under strict instructions to make myself sexually available at all times this weekend.

Top Tips

David blogging for Lucy

Well, we’ve come to the end of my week of blog-sitting and I haven’t broken anything so I hope Lucy will be pleased. Thank you everyone who has commented and especially DLiscious22 who has linked to one of my posts and appears to have small but perfectly-formed tits, so well done her. I hope nobody takes offence that I removed a couple of religiously-tinged posts. As a scientist I can’t really condone that sort of dangerous nonsense.

So here’s my list of top tips for the next time you come to A&E.

Try to make sure you’ve actually had an accident or are having an emergency. Things that constitute neither of these include bad backs or aching knees that you’ve had for weeks; having a bit of a temperature – why and yes, now you mention it, several other symptoms of the common cold; being drunk but not unconscious; having a panic attack, especially if you only suffer from panic attacks while under arrest.

Don’t come because your no-win, no-fee solicitor told you to come. I won’t be able to tell whether you had whiplash 6 weeks ago but got better.

Please bring any medication you’re taking with you. I don’t have access to your GP’s notes and it doesn’t help to tell me it’s a small pink pill.

You won’t get seen quicker just because you called an ambulance (nor will you get seen more slowly, though it’s tempting to see patients in the reverse order of how big a wanker they are). All patients will be seen according to clinical need.

Yes, I know there’s a government-imposed target that all patients presenting at A&E will be seen within 4 hours. Yes, I know you’ve been here more than 4 hours. Please wait a moment while I reverse time. Oh wait, I can’t. What else would you like me to do about it? You’ve been watching me working, I haven’t been sitting in a nice comfy chair, I’ve been busy seeing people according to their clinical need and you’re a long way down that list.

I know you’ve seen me sitting at a desk. That’s not because I’m just having a chat. I’m writing up medical notes which it is vitally important to do immediately and accurately. Sometimes, when I’m on the phone, I’m seeking advice from a specialist. I am only very occasionally just having a chat.

Please be polite and non-racist. If you must insist that you “ain’t seeing no Paki doctor” then you ain’t seeing no doctor. Oh, and please try not to ask female doctors “When can I see the doctor please nurse?”

If you run a nursing home, please don’t wave elderly and confused patients off in the ambulance without someone with them who knows their background condition and what their symptoms are now.

Try to tell me what’s wrong with you in less than 10 minutes. You may omit any part of the story which is an explanation of why it “weren’t my fault”.

If you’re going to take the novel step of coming to hospital and then rejecting all medical advice, please self-discharge promptly. Don’t wait until I’ve spent money on expensive tests and arranged a bed.

If you’re going to make jokes, please make them funny.  Any allergies?  Only to hospitals…Oh my sides have split laughing at that one. If I make jokes you must of course laugh, especially as, however terrible my joke, its purpose is to distract your attention from something uncomfortable or nasty I’m doing to you. Did you hear about the patient who went to the doctor with pains in his arm? “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” “The bad news please doctor.” “I’m afraid we’re going to have to amputate your arm.” “And the good news?” “The man in the next bed want to buy your gloves.” A man goes to the doctor complaining of deafness. The doctor examines his ear and finds a piece of lettuce jammed inside. “Is it serious doctor?” “It could be the tip of the iceberg.” A man goes to the doctor and the doctor says, “I’m afraid it’s bad news. You’ve got cancer and Alzheimer’s.” “Oh well, it could be worse. I could have cancer.”

Don’t get sick at the start of August. It’s when all the newly-qualified doctors start and also when all the junior doctors rotate their roles. Nobody knows what they’re doing at the start of August.

Don’t get sick on the last Friday in the month. The previous night will have been the big pay-day booze up, generally held jointly with the ambulance service, local fire crews and police station. In fact make sure you don’t need any emergency services on the last Friday in the month.

Don’t flirt with the nurses.  That’s my job.
   
Tonight’s my last night-shift before a couple of days off then back on days. I’m very tired and the final night-shift is always the hardest because my body gives up a bit when the end’s in sight. But I shall be kept going by the knowledge that when I get home tomorrow morning, Lucy will be back from Leeds and curled up in bed all warm naked flesh and wobbly boobs and bum and I get to shag her senseless all weekend.

This Post Has No Title

Fucking horrible night last night. We got a paediatric arrest. That means a baby, blue and cold, rushed in by an ambulance crew, all consultations stop, Sister calls the paediatric resuscitation team. And there’s fuck all we can do. It’s a cot death, the baby is obviously dead, but we still go through the motions because it’s an important part of the grieving process for the parents to feel that everything possible was done.

In a case like this, the paediatric registrar is in charge and she gives us our jobs before the ambulance arrives. Mine is to insert an interosseous line – this is a needle inserted into the bone of the leg and it’s a quick way to give drugs and fluids when there are no visible blood vessels. When you’re not in charge, you can feel very detached. I concentrate on what I’m doing and the activity around me, the mother’s screams, all seems like something that’s happening in the next room. The fluids and drugs don’t work, neither does the oxygen or the heart compressions. We don’t expect it to but nobody wants to say stop. The registrar suggests a double dose of adrenaline. I don’t think it will work and I know she doesn’t either but we do it anyway.

We’ve been going 15 minutes now and one of the senior nurses suggests stopping. We all avoid each other’s eyes, nobody wants to be the first to respond. The mother takes the decision out of our hands. “Please stop, please stop, my baby’s dead.”

We stop and stare at the tiny body of the baby, needles and tubes sticking out of it. We remove all the needles and tubes and one of the nurses wraps the baby in a blanket. His parents cradle him, talking to him, apologising to him.

Tax Payers

Twenty-something man with a pain in his foot. He’s had the pain in his foot since playing football on Sunday. He hasn’t been to see his GP. He hasn’t taken any painkillers. No, it hasn’t suddenly got worse. He called an ambulance to come to A&E. He wants an x-ray. I ask him why he called an ambulance. Apparently it’s because, “I pay my fucking taxes so I can get an x-ray when I want it.” Now, this isn’t really an answer to my question about the ambulance. I tell him (not exactly in these words) that he pays his taxes so that I can decide whether he needs an x-ray. He treats me to a rant about patient choice and the fact that he’s “a fucking tax-payer.” I like it when patients remind me of this fact because, as you’ll all be aware, doctors are exempt from paying taxes and therefore have no opinions about the proper use of public services.

To my shame, I do send him to x-ray. He doesn’t need one, he’s obviously just sprained a muscle, but I need him out of A&E quickly. Later on he kicks off when we won’t send him home in an ambulance. “I came here in a fucking ambulance and I’m fucking well going home in a fucking ambulance. I’m a fucking tax-payer…” I’m doing another consultation so I’m just listening to this through a curtain. A nurse offers to order a taxi (absolutely not a nurse’s job but she wants rid of him too). “How do you expect me to walk to a fucking taxi and then get out of a taxi and walk to my fucking house with a fucking broken foot?” I stick my head round the curtain and tell him quietly that he can do it the same way he walked out into the car park a few minutes ago and bummed a light off me when he wanted a cigarette. He gets me to spell my surname (and I’m guessing that’s not so he can send me flowers).

I had a couple of drug cases in a row. The first is a teenager unconscious on ketamine, which we’re suddenly seeing a lot of. I tubed him up and sent him off to Intensive Care with his weeping parents trailing behind his trolley. He’ll probably be OK but his treatment will cost you, the tax payer, a shit load of money (not me, remember, doctors don’t pay taxes). The next is a thirtyish man who’s been taking cocaine and now has chest pains. He can’t understand it because he thought cocaine was ‘safe’. It isn’t. His coronary artery is in spasm. He goes to the Coronary Care Unit where he can spend the night being stabilised and looking into his future. The damage he’s done tonight is permanent and his life expectancy almost certainly shortened. He’ll be back in CCU one day, breathing through a mask and listening to the machine that goes beep.

Just before I go off duty, the red phone goes, it’s an incoming overdose and she’s fourteen. I call the paediatrics SHO and the anaesthetic team in case we need to manage her breathing. There’s a set routine for these cases and doctors have been known to mumble it in their sleep. Airway – oxygen – breathing – pulse – blood pressure – fluids. That’s the easy bit. Now the hard bit – talk to her parents. Just as I’m explaining to them what they’ve watched us do, the nurse calls out, “Quick, her blood pressure’s dropping” and her parents have to watch us manhandling her and sticking things in her again, still without any idea what’s going on or how serious it is. She stabilises and I can talk to them properly. I ask them if they know why she took the overdose and her mother hands me her suicide note.

In it she’s written about being bullied at school, hating herself because of the bullies, feeling hopeless, not believing that there’s anything anyone can do to end it, that she’ll be bullied everywhere she goes for the rest of her life. She apologises to her parents and asks her sister to look after her hamster. The worst thing about this terrible letter is that it’s beautifully written. It’s literate and thoughtful, her handwriting is clear and neat and her spelling and grammar are perfect. She’s a nice, bright girl, with nice parents and a sister and a hamster. Her bullies, on the other hand, will be in here any minute demanding ambulances and x-rays and ruinously expensive medical treatment to cure them of their self-inflicted ills.

I get home feeling particularly wound up and remember Lucy’s in Leeds. Seriously, if any ladies fancy a brief, unsatisfying shag off a doctor who’s too tired to remember your name then I’m off duty at 7 a.m. tomorrow. Bring your girlfriends, I have equally tired and needy colleagues.