Free What a Load of Rubbish by Martin Etheridge Page B

slice of ca… oooh arrgh oh gosh no! ” Just as the Voluntary Services lady stopped at Malcolm’s bed, Gisele made one “last ditch” attempt to save the relationship and tried to put her arms round him. All this action – in the limited confines of Malcolm’s bed space – was obscured even further by the clouds of steam coming from the tea and coffee urns. Disaster!
    “No! I’m sorry Gise,” Malcolm was announcing gravely, “when I say it’s over, it’s over…” And made a cutting gesture with his arm outstretched and a flat hand, as if to physically sever the bond. The sweeping gesture of his arm turned that gesture into a karate-chop which gathered momentum. And caught Gisele, full force, in the throat, just as she was bearing down to try to plant a kiss on Malcolm. Sending her staggering backwards into the Voluntary Services lady. Winding her and making her throw a scalding hot cup of tea – or was it coffee? – into the air. And we all know where that landed, don’t we? Yup – all over Malcolm.
    “Oooh-Aahh-help! I’m melting – Ouch – AAAH!” screamed Malcolm, his skin glowing red, then peeling away completely as the boiling liquid soaked intohis pyjamas.
    Within seconds that bed space became the next Armageddon. Malcolm was yelling out in pain, shock, surprise – or probably all three. The Voluntary Services was apologising and attempting to dry-off Malcolm’s pyjamas with a tissue, which made him shriek even louder as paper-tissue is not the gentlest material to rub recently scalded skin with. And Gisele, herself in shock, was shouting at the top of her voice.
    “Achtung! Achtung! Nurse! Nurse! Mein Malky ist dyink! He ist boilink alive in hot hospital beverages! You must help him before it ist too late und he ist scarred for life!”
    “Quick! Get a trolley! Contact the burns unit. Madam – will you stop panicking, please! ” The ward-sister arrived and tried to calm Gisele down but it was no good; her fears for her man were too strong.
    “Kall der Fire Brigade! Kall der doctor, Kall anyvun! Kall no-vun! Kall somevun! You must help himm – ach nein, I am beginnink to panic!”
    SLAP! WACK! SLAP! WACK! But the ward sister was good at her job. Expertly trained in emergency procedures, she spun Gisele round by the shoulders until they were face to face and gave her a hearty slap across both cheeks. Then did it again and again, until Gisele collapsed,unconscious into Malcolm’s bedside chair.
    Poor old Malcolm; his feelings for Gisele were so strong that in spite of his wounds, in spite of the sheer pain he was in, he wanted to calm her and called out to her while he was on the trolley being wheeled down to the burns unit. “It’s alright Gise, darlin’ – I’ve had much, much worse. Remember that time I was run over by that…”
    But Malcolm was never to finish the sentence. As he lay on that trolley the powerful drugs that were injected into his bloodstream to deaden the pain kicked in, making him quite numb and he lapsed into unconsciousness.
    Downstairs where it was cool, in the burns unit, Malcolm was treated for first, second, third and, possibly, fourth and fifth-degree burns and major scalding. The lady doctor who treated him, a Missus Pam Fry-Bacon wrote in her notes: ‘If the beverage that Mr Tilsley came into contact with had been one or two degrees hotter he may have required plastic surgery.’
    Hours later Malcolm was wheeled back up to his bed on the ward, where Gisele was dozing fitfully in his bedside chair. She woke with a start.
    “Oh Malky mein chatz – ist you okay? I haff been worryink so much!” There was a little mountain of tissue-paper,shredded on Malcolm’s bedside table; she had bitten all her fingernails down to nothing and was about start on her toenails. UGH! That’s worry for you. “I am so ver’ ver’ sorry I haff given you so much pain. Can you ever forgive me leibe shon?”
    “Don’t worry about that, darlin’,” Malcolm was chewing