Just been to a young woman in her late 20's.

Deceased.

Leaves behind two children.

Happy Christmas.



I can't really say more than that as the police are involved.

A couple of minor things happened during my last set of nights that I found vaguely amusing.  It’s Christmas eve.  I’m working.  So this is as good as it gets.

Oh…and the next blogger who posts how they are having a holiday from both work and blogging gets my size twelves up their bum.  I’m still bleedin’ working!

——–

I was driving home from a particularly busy nightshift, when I saw that someone had written something in the dirt covering a van.  ‘hic magne’.  Is that Latin, I thought?  It only took me five minutes to realise that I had misread the writing.  It actually said ‘chick magnet’.

——–

Picture the scene, I’m in front of a *ahem*, ‘large’ man with breathing difficulties.  So I thrust my hand, and stethescope up the back of his workshirt to listen to his chest.

He has a (sweaty) back that is hairier than most dogs.  Lovely.

——–

I was sent to a ‘fall from height’, the patient had apparently fallen out of a second floor window.  So why was I climbing up four flights of stairs to reach him?  Because the patient’s actual injury was that he had been bouncing on the marital bed, and had hit his head on the ceiling.  The whole ‘fall from height’ bit was purely because the patient didn’t have the world’s best command of English.

Nice enough fellow mind, with a bit of a graze on the head that had been bleeding a bit.

——–

“Control”, I call down the radio, “My navigation has failed, I don’t know where this nightclub is supposed to be.  Any chance of help finding it?”.

“Sure”, comes the reply, “I think my colleague frequents that particular dive”. 

A pause…

“Yes, she knows where it is, you’re miles away”.

“Sorry Control”, I reply, “I haven’t been to a nightclub in years, and never one around here”.

Fourteen jobs.

Ten of those jobs involved people who were drunk and/or homeless.

I was told by one of them to ‘fuck off’ as he was sleeping in the street, and people thought he was dead.  I got called back to him once, and another crew got called to him a third time before he finally decided to let them take him to hospital.  The (drunk) man who called me out first threatened to write a complaint to my boss if I didn’t take the ‘patient’ to hospital.

In a very professional and polite manner I told him to go away.

I have no problem with the homeless, but most of the homeless I meet are either alcoholic or drug addicts.  Part of the problem with working for the health service is you only see the sick people, so it sometimes leads to a skewed view of reality.

There is a big homeless shelter in our area being run this year, which means that the number of alcoholics in Newham has suddenly increased, although I wonder why we can’t get accommodation for them the whole year round (for those that want it of course, I’ve met some homeless who just like sleeping rough).

So a busy day, full of asking people to clarify what they consider to be ‘only a little’ bit of drinking.

I'm having a bit of an insomnia moment, so I turn on the television and randomly tune it to various stations. I come across the 'extreme sports' channel, and watch a film about skateboarders and parkour runners. As I'm watching them using steps, guard rails, benches, ramps, statues and other street furniture to make their way across town in an interesting way, I start to wonder if they see the city in a different way to the rest of us. Do they see jumps, 'grinds' and the like on an almost unconscious level?

Then I start thinking about how I see the place where I work. I see it on three different levels. I see the streets as a map. Main roads to use in order to get to the different areas of town, the junctions that I always seem to be taking, turning left to get to the police station, turning right to head towards Forest Gate. Turning right here to get to Leyton, or straight on towards Stratford. It's all there in my head - in the white and yellow of the A to Z. This is the way I think of Newham as I'm going to a job.

The other way that I think of the streets is as I’m trying to make my way through the traffic.  I stop seeing cars and lorries as vehicles.  Instead I’m watching the spaces that they make.  I’m watching the patterns they make in the road ahead.  I’m unconsciously aware of where the drivers are looking, have they seen me or not?  The way the vehicles move is also in my mind.  Are they hesitant?  If they are then there is a good chance that they will stop suddenly.  Are they speeding?  In that case they may overtake the car that has seen me and has pulled over.  But I spend my time seeing, and aiming for the spaces.

Finally, I see Newham in terms of the patients I have treated.  Over there was the 26 year old who dropped dead playing football.  Across the road is one of our regulars, a lovely old lady with a list of ailments as long as your arm.  That street I’m about to pull into had the drunk who didn’t notice that he had a broken hand.  Now I’m cruising past the road that a twelve year old died in.  A hundred yards from where I’m eating my McBagel is where the teenager got stabbed after the Notting Hill carnival.  Every street has a story, and some memories are always triggered as I drive past them.  For me, Newham is full of ghosts.

There has been a big discussion in the ‘Can’t be bothered’ post about how to tell if you are becoming an alcoholic.  What with my constant despair about the number and type of alcoholics I find myself attending.

You can check your drinking habits at the Drink Aware website.  I’ve given it a quick look over, and it’s well worth a look.  It’s not too preachy, perhaps because it is operated by the Portman group, which is made up by many of the main suppliers of alcohol.

To answer some few questions about ‘da Book’.

• Yes, it is based around the blog – I’m taking blogposts from here, rewriting some of them, adding in new information and putting some of them in context.
• Yes I am happy being published.  Very happy strangely enough.
• I have to have the first draft in by the end of February, around 90,000 words.
• I was approached by the Friday Project, I didn’t approach them.  Actually I was approached by three publishers at once.  Thus proving that publishers are like buses, none for ages and then three come at once.
• The idea of publishing it under a Creative Commons license was my idea.  I think that the Friday Project are incredibly cool and forward looking to let me do this.  Publishing under this license will hopefully sell more copies, and let me feel like I’m not selling out.
• I am surprised that people want to publish me.  When I started writing this blog it was the furthest thing from my mind.
• Yes, Work know, and are happy with the whole idea.
• No…it hasn’t quite sunk in yet…

Tuesday 20th December

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE



The Friday Project secures publishing rights to London Ambulance Service blogger, 'Random Acts of Reality'


The Friday Project is delighted to announce that it has secured the rights to 'Random Acts of Reality', a book based on the acclaimed online diary of London-based Emergency Medical Technician (E.M.T.), Tom Reynolds.

Tom began working as a nurse for the NHS at the age of 23. He worked in four hospitals but moved to the London Ambulance Service after realising that working in A&E was making him 'want to torture patients'. Now, as an E.M.T., he has finally found his true calling - so much so that he has stopped torturing 'all but the congenitally obnoxious... and drunks.'

Since 2003, Tom has kept an online diary (or 'weblog', or even 'blog'), candidly recording every aspect of his daily working life. From the tragic to the hilarious, from the heartwarming to the terrifying, the stories Tom tells give a fascinating - and at times alarming - picture of life in inner-city Britain, and the people who are paid to mop up after it.

Random Acts of Reality will be published in August 2006 in paperback format. It will also be the first mainstream UK title to be published online in its entirety under a Creative Commons Licence.

Paul Carr, Editor-in-Chief of The Friday Project explains: "Like many people in the media, we've been huge fans of Tom's writing for a long time. When we first approached him about turning his blog into a book, he suggested that we might also publish an online edition to allow people to access the full text electronically before deciding whether to purchase a hard copy.
It's a fantastic idea and one that suits the material perfectly.
And hopefully it will encourage other publishers to be less nervous about making material available online in order to increase hardcopy sales."

Publishing under a Creative Commons Licence makes the entire text of the book available online and also entitles readers to download it, and reproduce it for personal, non-commercial use.
The publisher and the author retain all commercial publishing rights to the material.

The paperback edition of the book will be available in all good bookshops, published under The Friday Project's 'Friday Books'
imprint.


ENDS

Do you know how hard it is to keep quiet about something when you blog about pretty much anything that wanders across your mind? You'll notice I have a new category 'Da Book', where I'll put anything that occurs while I write the thing. It won't 'bubble up' to the main page, so as to not fill this blog with booky concerns.

I've just come from a call to one of my semi-regulars. He's alcoholic, has a stomach ulcer, and is as thin as a rake. He is sitting in a filthy kitchen surrounded by empty bottles of cheap booze.

He's 26 years old.

His friend, of the same age, is also an alcoholic. He has pancreatitis.

Asked if they want to try a rehab programme, I was told that they weren't interested.

I've got to confess, it made me angry. Two lives being washed away with bottles of cheap cider.

"So you want to die?", I asked.

They didn't have an answer.

Now I just want to hit something.

Congratulations to Kate, who was on the same training course as me, for being featured in the Independant on Sunday about what she is doing on Christmas day, and what she will be eating. (Crisps, sandwiches and a bit of fruit for those that are interested). She mentions that her Christmas dinner will be warmed up in the microwave.

Sad bit though is that she won't see her young children until much later in the day.

We get little thanks for our job, so I hereby command you, my little cult of adoring readers, to find your local ambulance station and take them something nice to eat. Packets of crisps are nice, as are boxes of chocolates. Nibbly things are good too, as they can sit on a table and be snacked on should we ever get back to station. I'm sure lots of people like mince pies.

Do the same for the Police as well.

I wouldn't worry about the Fire service though - they have lovely big kitchens and nothing to do all day...

Go forth, and spread joy to those poor bastard ambulance/police people working on Christmas.

Disclaimer: I'm working Christmas day. But I always do, not having kids and being a Godless Heathen.

The past couple of nights I've gone to calls that I've wanted to grab some parents and shake some common sense into them. Instead I have to be polite, if only for the quiet life.

Apologies - Judgemental post ahoy!

"Madam", I hear myself say, "the reason that your four children have asthma may well have something to do with the four packs of cigarettes I see sitting on the sofa. When you were at the ante natal classes, and they told you the effects of smoking on your children, did you think that they just liked to hear the sound of their own voices? Or, did you in an uncharacteristic spark of intelligence, think that they may just be the agents of some vast conspiracy financed by the companies who make nicotine patches?".

"You might also consider that the reason all your children have runny noses, is because smoking makes them less likely to fight off respiratory infections. You might not know this, but asthma kills people, and that includes your children. You are condemming them to a shortened life of ill health and hospital visits, all so that you can feed your oral fixation."

To other parents I might say...

"So, when you got an electric shock from the uninsulated wire poking from that hole in the wall, you didn't think of...I don't know...lets say protecting your children by having it fixed? Sure it might cost you a bit of money, but at least your toddler wouldn't now be in hospital to make sure that being electrocuted by mains electricity didn't do any permanent harm".

"I like that toy", I'd say to another mother of two, "I particularly like the little bite-sized bits of plastic that are strewn over the floor, yes I understand that your oldest child is a mite untidy, but when your 18 month old is choking to death on a toy soldier, you might consider it too late to tidy up. I know it's hard to teach six year olds to clean up after themselves, especially one who seems to be happier peeling your wallpaper off the wall while you shout at him to 'stop fuckin' doin' that!'. Perhaps you might try a different approach? In answer to your question, no you can't smoke in the back of the ambulance".

To one angry parent I might say...

"So your baby stopped breathing for five minutes? And I took over half an hour to come? Well, I'd like to show you the time you called, and how it took me only two minutes to get here, but I think the computer display in my car might confuse you. Besides, I'm not delivering your pizza, you don't get your money back if I'm longer than thirty minutes. Still, back to the baby - she's breathing alright now, perhaps I could interest you in employment in the ambulance service, as you seem to have a Christ-like ability to get children breathing again. Oh, sorry, baby is a 'he' not a 'she'? Sorry, I was confused at the two hoop earrings, the three necklaces, and the rings, all at under six months. Why stop there? Maybe they would like their belly button pierced as well? Still I suppose 'Shayne' is a manly name, funny way of spelling it though. Never mind, we're off to hospital now, don't forget your fags".

And don't forget those who may have strange priorities...

"JESUS CHRIST! Aren't the six foot Santa's and inflatable snowmen supposed to be outside the house? I thought I was going to get mugged by a madman in red. Nice television though, if you could just turn the volume down a little so I can hear what you are saying to me. Yes Tyler is an adorable eight year old, even if he did injure himself smashing his neighbour's windows. Why, might I ask are his hands that colour? Ah, how silly of me, paint from his self expression in the fine art of graffiti. Did you consider a taxi to take you the 400 yards to hospital. You can't afford one? Ever think of selling the TV? Or maybe the Santa?. Yes, yes, you can bring your cigarettes".

And breathe...and relax...

It was supposed to end at the first paragraph, but I just kept rolling. Oops.

I find it funny that a lot of the blogs that I read are 'winding down' a little for Christmas, either reducing posts, or taking a complete holiday. Me...I'm just getting busier and busier. Good job I'm a faithless Heathen.

When I'm at a 'job'. I don't panic, it's part of my job description to keep control of a situation and to stop other people from running around screaming like a headless chickens. Sometimes I will have to be forceful, or act quickly, but I never panic.

I got a job, '14 month child, floppy and lifeless'.

"Fuck", I thought.

It was in a part of my patch I'm not very familiar with, new buildings on the isle of dogs. The address was given as 'Flat 1, Rose house, Starling road'.

This is obviously not the address I was given, I do respect patient confidentiality after all

I rushed to Starling road, a new estate, loads of buildings, none of which seemed to be marked.

"Fuck", I thought.

If a child is floppy or lifeless, then the chances are it is either very ill, or is dead.

I sped up and down the road. I spotted some of the names of the flats in tiny writing, on little blue plaques many of them pointing away from the road. My pulse started to rise. It had taken me four minutes to reach the area, but how much longer would it take me to locate the potentially very sick child?

I found 'Lilac House', 'Lily House' and 'Tulip House', but I couldn't find 'Rose House'.

Now I was starting to panic. Was I being stupid? Had I driven past it? Was the baby dead, and if it was, was it because I couldn't find the fucking house?

I could feel the sweat soaking my back, without being able to get to the patient there was nothing I could do. I cursed the council, the builders, the architects, everyone who had thought that putting pretty, but bloody useless signs on the buildings was a good idea.

I got Control to ring the parents back, the mother came out to meet me. 'Rose House' was behind another block of flats, behind a road barrier. The name plaque had text around an inch high, pointing away from the road.

Luckily the baby only had a runny nose.

I hated it though, the utter feeling of helplessness that comes with being unable to find a patient, the sweating, the raised pulse and the vaguely sick feeling in the bottom of the stomach as you race up and down a street in the dark trying to find the right location.

Please. If any architects, builders, council planners or sign writers read this, make the signs bigger. Make them so I can read them at night. Make them so that if it is your relative that is critically ill, I can find them before it's too late.



Only 3,960 jobs today...

4,200 calls last night compared to our more normal 3,600. Yes, we were busy, and in a surprising turn-about almost all of my jobs were genuine, 'I need an ambulance' type affairs.Between midnight and six am we had 1,000 calls.At least I have things to write about for the next 10 or twelve days...