The problem with having two quiet days at work is that there isn’t that much to write about.

On Saturday one of the first jobs was to someone whose name my crewmate recognised.

“He’s a nice old boy,” he told me.  “When his wife was alive she’d call us every time he coughed.  He’s deaf and blind – used to be a British champion boxer.  He’s a big fella, so I hope we don’t have to carry him downstairs.  We don’t see him much now, he hasn’t called us out in ages”.

The patient was sitting alone in his flat, scattered around him were books that he could no longer read.  In the corner was a television that probably hadn’t been turned on in years.  Just a frail man sitting quietly in his chair marking time.  On the table next to his chair was the remains of some ‘meals on wheels’.  I could see that he had once been a ‘solid’ man, like the men who worked on the docks – tall and thick with muscle.  He wasn’t that man anymore.  He was frail, shaking, and seemed nervous of everything, not something that you’d expect from an ex-boxer.

It was hard getting his history, as I needed to lean close to his ear and shout.  At one point he let out a hacking cough just as I was leaning next to him – so we took him to hospital with a possible chest infection.

Our last job of the day was back to the same address – he’d been discharged from hospital and just wanted someone to ‘check his pulse’. 

We didn’t mind.