You’re out on the town, celebrating something or other (perhaps just that its Saturday night) by drinking far too much. You stagger down road, between bars, and stumble past my First Aid Unit. Lets be honest, it’s pretty difficult to miss. It’s bright white and yellow and green, and it’s about the size of a good-sized bus (it’s called the First Aid Bus for good reason).
Being the nosey drunk you are, you stick your head around the door, seeing what you can see. Instantly you spot one of the beds I’ve been fastidiously keeping clean all night. ‘Ah’, you think, ‘just the place for a nap’. In you amble, complete with your cloud of alcohol fumes, and take a seat, ready to lie down and close your eyes.
Then you encounter me. Or rather, you encounter my hand, clasped around your forearm, giving you just enough of a tug to encourage you to get to your feet. A couple of steps with you in front of me is enough to get you to the door, and after that it’s a gentle push that has you down our ramp, and then ambling on your way, grumbling under your breath as you go.
What you don’t notice, once you are around the corner, is that the entire Unit, which had been filled with a couple of lively conversations, has fallen into a dumbstruck silence. A sole person comments ‘well that could have ended badly’ as I look in bemusement at my still slightly clenched right fist.
Because what you didn’t seem to notice, through your drunken stupor, is that I’m a measly eight stone dripping wet (and boy does it show), while you must have been at least twelve or fourteen. Not to mention the four or five inches you had on me. And I just led you out of the post like a misbehaving child.
I don’t know what it is about this magic uniform, but one of these days it’s going to get me beaten up!