“Another hellish day of fucking shit...”
...That was what one of the hospital phlebotomists said to Wendy when she asked her whether she had been busy.
I had a good day. It was brisk and there were things about it that made the work harder than it should have been, but I’m home now and I don’t feel tired.
“I hear you’re leaving us,” said Jill during a rare excursion away from the desk where, through some incredible feat of endurance, she single-handedly runs the domiciliary phlebotomy service for housebound patients.
It’s true. My last day in the Pathology Department is September 30th. I will be sorry to leave. There are people here who I am going to miss.
This morning was the first day of Autumn. I poked my head out of my bedroom window and sensed a change that will only be reversed by the slow turn of the earth and the passing of time. These were patches of condensation beading on the glass. Although the sun was warm the light had an aged golden quality about it. Walking along the seafront I felt a stiff breeze that was neither chill nor crisp, but was certainly of the season. In the overgrown grass verges I caught sight of pieces of wild mushroom strewn about like broken crockery. Further along my road, opposite the church, a spongy yellow plate fungus has taken root halfway up a tree, extending out from the trunk like a balcony.
There’s a garden spider living among the aerial origami in my bedroom, its abdomen a mottled brown and white mosaic of extraordinary detail and beauty. Every couple of days it packs-up its web and relocates to a different part of the ceiling.
This evening I walked home from the hospital in the warm sunshine, weaving in and out of the trees along the broad grassy central reservation that divides both carriageways of Prittlewell Chase, my new boots kicking the heads off every dandelion clock that came within striking distance.