Just getting through the day
Trudging along the hospital corridors, I meander my way towards the main entrance, fresh air and the outside world. With practise, it’s surprisingly easy to just not notice people coming and going on all sides. Blinkers on, head down, I can make the trolley person with the cleaning equipment, the porter pushing an empty bed, the endless droves of staff in hospital scrubs, the faces of visitors arriving and the sadder faces of people leaving – all blur together. This is a place of worry and hope, of endless cups of jelly and lukewarm tea. No-one comes here for sh*ts and giggles.
I find the lifts, make it down to ground floor. From there, the corridors all look the same. Signage is minimal and what there is makes little sense, no matter how often I come here. Momentarily disoriented, I stop to ask the driver of the courtesy-buggy if I’m heading in the right direction. Mistake.
After a bit of hand waving, it’s clear that our frames of reference aren’t quite the same. She gives me landmarks that I’ve failed to notice and suggestions that are about as helpful. Even so, I nod politely, smile, thank her for the help and plod tiredly on, glancing around absently in the hopes of spotting that most elusive of things, an EXIT sign.
Instead, I spot a pair of not unduly pert buttocks peeking shyly out between the curtains of a hospital gown a few metres ahead of me. Above them is a red windcheater; below, a pair of bare, hairy legs ending in shuffling thong-clad feet. I notice the reluctance of the passers-by to draw attention to themselves by mentioning the buttocks to their owner. He shambles on, takeaway coffee in hand, oblivious to the sideways looks of distaste and the occasional chuckle, and turns down a corridor. Out of sight, but not quite out of mind.
Why is it, I wonder, that the sight of these naked manly buttocks, presented in all their (somewhat terrifying) glory, leaves me with the uncomfortable taste of slightly grubby voyeurism? Perhaps it’s the context – they’re the buttocks of someone who’s escaped from their hospital bed for a few minutes, buttocks that should be in a ward somewhere, cared for and recovering from whatever ails them and their host.
Escaping the confines of the hospital, I step into the pallid winter sunshine and breath freedom. It’s been raining again and world looks rather the way I feel – washed out and a bit tired. My shoulders relax; I hadn’t even realised how tense they were.
Gathering my edges back together, I look up and see – Oh, horror – the buttocks! Emerging from a staff exit, they make their bobbing journey across the carpark, their owner intent on the cigarette he now has in the hand not holding his coffee. The hospital gown flaps in the breeze with wild abandon. He’s oblivious. I am undone.
