“Hello, ambulances!” said a friendly voice. “It’s Common town Police here; we’ve got one for your attendance.”
“Jolly good,” I said. It’s always nice to talk to other services, like the police, fire brigade, buses and tube. They’re always so much friendlier than the general public. “Where are we off to?”
“West Common Road, near the church. We’ve just had a report from a man walking his dog who’s seen a man lying in the bushes — deceased, he thinks. He’s too scared to approach. We’re on way… are you?”
“WEST COMMON ROAD, SE29″ I typed. “MALE LYING IN BUSHES, POSSIBLY DECEASED.” By the time I’d flicked through the triage questions, an ambulance and a FRU were on way, and I told the police so.
The FRU in question just happened to belong to one Mr Steve Gibbs. Spotting this, I was tempted to write “MORNING STEVE!!!” in the special instructions, but I don’t think it would have gone down too well with my boss. Instead, I made a small but significant alteration to the diagnosis: