John Smith (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dreamtofbeing) wrote2011-04-10 07:06 pm
dreamtofbeing) wrote2011-04-10 07:06 pm
Entry tags:
For drumsinthedeep
There are quite a few hospitals scattered across the greater Cardiff area, and voluntarily or not, the Doctor knows most of them. He's been a patient in the three most central ones, and has been to most of the ones in more outlying regions, either for outpatient care or to visit somebody. So when he received a three-am-phone call from Spire Hospital earlier that night, the shrill ring of the telephone jerking both him and the Master awake, it took him a few moments to figure out that apparently, there is a hospital in Cardiff that had so far evaded his attention.
The reasons for his ignorance became clear as he talked to the apathetic clerk on the other end of the line, who informed him that Spire Hospital is a private healthcare provider situated in the quiet, picturesque suburb of Prontprennau, and that it usually doesn't offer emergency services.
Good to know, the Doctor had said. But tell him, why exactly was he getting a phone call at three in the morning informing him about the services that Spire Hospital doesn't offer?
Because, the clerk had replied, it was his phone number on the emergency contact card that was found in the pocket of an emergency admission patient.
Oh, the Doctor had said. Right.
He had asked the clerk for directions to Prontprennau, and then, ignoring the Master's bleary protests--it's three am, just wait till morning; he's in a hospital, they'll take care of him over night--he found his keys and made his way to his car.
Now, about half an hour later, he just pulled into a parking space on a deserted hospital parking lot and is getting out of his car. The signs, kept in a tasteful green to avoid any resonance of the stark blue color of the NHS logo, direct him to the admission desk, where he finally meets the surly clerk in person. Yes, they talked on the phone. Yes, he's here to pick him up. Yes, he'll cover any--wait. There are going to be charges?
Ten minutes later, he's 900 pounds closer to maxing out his credit card, and is led down a hallway to the admission ward's examination room. He frowns, thinking that for 900 pounds, they could have at least given the guy a room with a proper bed. He doesn't say anything, though, just slips his hands into his pockets and suppresses a yawn as the clerk puts a hand on the exam room's doorknob and looks around.
"So you're his brother, then, yeah?"
The Doctor raises an eyebrow. "Something like that."
"Hm." The clerk contemplates that answer. "He got some kind of . . . y'know. Disorder?"
The Doctor doesn't reply, just lets his eyebrow climb a bit further upwards. The clerk shrugs. "Just asking. He's a bit, y'know. Odd."
"That he is." The Doctor tips his head at the door knob. The clerk takes the hint and finally opens the door; then steps aside to let the Doctor enter first.
As he does so, the Doctor tries to remind himself that he's been where his "brother" is now, and that people getting impatient with him never helped.
The reasons for his ignorance became clear as he talked to the apathetic clerk on the other end of the line, who informed him that Spire Hospital is a private healthcare provider situated in the quiet, picturesque suburb of Prontprennau, and that it usually doesn't offer emergency services.
Good to know, the Doctor had said. But tell him, why exactly was he getting a phone call at three in the morning informing him about the services that Spire Hospital doesn't offer?
Because, the clerk had replied, it was his phone number on the emergency contact card that was found in the pocket of an emergency admission patient.
Oh, the Doctor had said. Right.
He had asked the clerk for directions to Prontprennau, and then, ignoring the Master's bleary protests--it's three am, just wait till morning; he's in a hospital, they'll take care of him over night--he found his keys and made his way to his car.
Now, about half an hour later, he just pulled into a parking space on a deserted hospital parking lot and is getting out of his car. The signs, kept in a tasteful green to avoid any resonance of the stark blue color of the NHS logo, direct him to the admission desk, where he finally meets the surly clerk in person. Yes, they talked on the phone. Yes, he's here to pick him up. Yes, he'll cover any--wait. There are going to be charges?
Ten minutes later, he's 900 pounds closer to maxing out his credit card, and is led down a hallway to the admission ward's examination room. He frowns, thinking that for 900 pounds, they could have at least given the guy a room with a proper bed. He doesn't say anything, though, just slips his hands into his pockets and suppresses a yawn as the clerk puts a hand on the exam room's doorknob and looks around.
"So you're his brother, then, yeah?"
The Doctor raises an eyebrow. "Something like that."
"Hm." The clerk contemplates that answer. "He got some kind of . . . y'know. Disorder?"
The Doctor doesn't reply, just lets his eyebrow climb a bit further upwards. The clerk shrugs. "Just asking. He's a bit, y'know. Odd."
"That he is." The Doctor tips his head at the door knob. The clerk takes the hint and finally opens the door; then steps aside to let the Doctor enter first.
As he does so, the Doctor tries to remind himself that he's been where his "brother" is now, and that people getting impatient with him never helped.