So it didn't quite go as planned.
More like this.
She stares out of the train window. Bleak landscape. Barren fields. Sky heavy with smog. The trees droop, tired with the nothingness that consumes them (aka Grantham). She stares. A single trickle of deep red blood escapes from her lip. Her teeth are stained scarlet. She stares. Her eyes are glazed. Stony. Dead.*
She gets on the tube. Her metallic saliva fills her perfect** mouth. She gets home. She bites on the gauze like they told her to. Ten minutes pass. The pearly white gauze is vermilion. She phones the helpline. They tell her to bite down on a gauze for half an hour. She has nearly run out. They tell her to bite down on a tea towel.
She bites on the gauze. Crimson.
She finds a clean (ish) tea towel and bites.
Her flatmate comes home. She takes a pen and scrawls:
I'm not allowed to talk for half an hour. ***
Mimi talks to her for half an hour. Blood on the tea towel.****
Claret red.
They get into the car. Mimi's dad drives.
She gets out. She touches the inside of her mouth. She stares at her finger. Sanguine. Darker now.
The A&E room is awash with disease. She seems to be the only one who can string a sentence together.*****
She overhears a conversation with head of triage and a drunk. (this is approximate)
Drunk: hkjhjf ajhfjhfalkj
Triage nurse: So what seems to be the problem?
Drunk: jskfhkjhgk olsijhgljhg (shows her his phone)
Triage nurse: So you have abdominal pains? Do you have pains in your stomach?
Drunk: You could say that. If you want to call it that. ******
She is called. The nurse pokes her mouths. It hurts. The blood has clotted. The nurse doesn't want to poke it lest it pops and starts bleeding all over again.
She must not eat or drink anything warm.
She must not eat or drink anything hot.
She must not brush her teeth.
She must not spit.
She must not rinse her mouth.
In fact, she must not eat.
She must only drink cold things.
She leaves. She gets lost on Herne Hill.
She is not amused.
*Except clearly not as she is writing this blogpost.
** Ha.
*** Practically unheard of.
****Good title for sub-rate crime novel. Or in fact, a Sophie Ellis-Bextor song.
***** Standard. Mummy Cotton didn't pay for Speech and Drama for nothing.
****** Not sure why she recounted this. It is dull and also probably not accurate. Gives you an idea of the type she mixes with on a Sunday.
More like this.
She stares out of the train window. Bleak landscape. Barren fields. Sky heavy with smog. The trees droop, tired with the nothingness that consumes them (aka Grantham). She stares. A single trickle of deep red blood escapes from her lip. Her teeth are stained scarlet. She stares. Her eyes are glazed. Stony. Dead.*
She bites on the gauze. Crimson.
She finds a clean (ish) tea towel and bites.
Her flatmate comes home. She takes a pen and scrawls:
I'm not allowed to talk for half an hour. ***
Mimi talks to her for half an hour. Blood on the tea towel.****
Claret red.
They get into the car. Mimi's dad drives.
She gets out. She touches the inside of her mouth. She stares at her finger. Sanguine. Darker now.
The A&E room is awash with disease. She seems to be the only one who can string a sentence together.*****
She overhears a conversation with head of triage and a drunk. (this is approximate)
Drunk: hkjhjf ajhfjhfalkj
Triage nurse: So what seems to be the problem?
Drunk: jskfhkjhgk olsijhgljhg (shows her his phone)
Triage nurse: So you have abdominal pains? Do you have pains in your stomach?
Drunk: You could say that. If you want to call it that. ******
She is called. The nurse pokes her mouths. It hurts. The blood has clotted. The nurse doesn't want to poke it lest it pops and starts bleeding all over again.
She must not eat or drink anything warm.
She must not eat or drink anything hot.
She must not brush her teeth.
She must not spit.
She must not rinse her mouth.
In fact, she must not eat.
She must only drink cold things.
She leaves. She gets lost on Herne Hill.
She is not amused.
*Except clearly not as she is writing this blogpost.
** Ha.
*** Practically unheard of.
****Good title for sub-rate crime novel. Or in fact, a Sophie Ellis-Bextor song.
***** Standard. Mummy Cotton didn't pay for Speech and Drama for nothing.
****** Not sure why she recounted this. It is dull and also probably not accurate. Gives you an idea of the type she mixes with on a Sunday.
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