Pretend Work Blog

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
First attempt at writing a funny blog using experiences in my field to pretend to be a paramedic out on duty.

Submitted: December 29, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 29, 2018



Sometimes My Grandma doesn’t wear knickers. Well actually, my eighty-one-year-old Grandma does wear underwear, all the time, but that is beside the point. This was a comment made whilst attending my first CPR. Not quite the baptism I was expecting.

Classes and lectures had taught me about signs and symptoms of strokes, how to support a woman giving birth (it’s usually the partner you need to worry about, not the woman at all. Oh, the irony!) Apparently, I also need to know how to deal with a precocious eight one year old. Right. Think brain. Which one should I deal with first? What to do? Was this a case of dementia? (The Granny, not the child, keep up!) Did I need to inform the authorities? I didn’t then have a speedy direct dial for Social Services, but I do now. Should I speak to my Team Leader? Roger over the radio. Help, there’s a Granny walking around starkers. Her Granddaughter just told me so.

No, calm down Captain Mannering, everything is under control. Focus upon the patient here, worry about the Granny later.

It didn’t end well. The actual patient was about forty. Lovely hair. Sadly, it wasn’t quite so immaculate after colliding with scrawny, scooter boy Charlie. Charlie was devastated, as could well be imagined but, not by what he’d done, but because his Dad was going to kill him. Brilliant. Was that another call to Social Services?

After that, things were a bit dull. Lunch, courtesy of Morrison’s finest sandwiches, following attending a chap who’d had an argument with a shopping trolley. Trolley one, man zero. Minus eight teeth. The odds were not in his favour. Someone then shouted at us:

 “Oi! You gonna move that truck or what?”

Excellent. The British lack of patience. Ironic really, when they can see the patient in front of them.

Just wait until they need us. Or come to that, their Granny needs us. Hopefully, with underwear, but as child X showed today, you can never really tell what Grannys are up to.

It’s not just that David Walliams chap who thinks about Gangsta Granny’s you know, although I do have to say child X’s Granny puts the one in his book to shame; no underwear for the win!

After a short cruise around the local metropolis, looking at the plethora of accidents waiting to happen, the Control Room, “Master” comes over the radio. The first time this happened, I thought God was speaking to me. But that’s another story.

Anyway, we rushed over to an area on the other side of town. Ironically, people never seem to notice us. Occasionally, they hear the blue wailing noises, but more generally, we end up shouting at a number of cars and buses, forgetting that the drivers can’t actually hear us through metal. Why we are surprised I don’t know; if they can’t hear the blue lights, then it’s extremely unlikely that they will hear me screaming: “Get out of the bloody way!”

 We definitely struggle to get anywhere. This is a fault of the entire system; can a fool proof system please be designed so that cars move automatically when blue lights are around. Note to self; perhaps I should suggest this to Google, who are, I believe designing self – driving cars?  Anyway, I digress…someone’s Granny is going to lose it metaphorically and physically in terms of life on this earth if we don’t get a Scooby on….

This Granny had fallen down a set concrete stairs, landing rather bizarrely on her back. Luckily for us, this one had underwear on. She was okay in reality, just in shock, but a mandatory trip to the hospital was required for this underwear wearing Granny.


She told us a lovely story about horses that she rode as a girl, I didn’t think there were any riding stables in Chatham; another Social Services referral perhaps?

A clean-up crew is still required at the foot of the once, grey stairs; she was lying there awhile without a bathroom access. I guess the underwear had its revenge after all.

As paramedics always work in pairs, I had to take colleague #1 and replace with a second. Literally. This one was Dippy; in nature and name, and if our patient had any chance of surviving, I had to drive and hop into the back if something went wrong. A kind of mix up, do both roles, be paid if lucky for one. Some people are just not cut out for this line of work.

A boy with a broken arm was sitting listening to Dippy talk about grasshoppers. Seb, (let’s give him that name, to protect his privacy) probably just wanted some peace and quiet; the morphine was in his system, but not really fully absorbed, but no. Dippy was in full swing. By the way, broken arms can be really painful, and Seb had part of his arm sticking out in a way it definitely shouldn’t…

Anyway, Dippy started to share some school boy (not even particularly accurate) Science, something he remembered from circa thirty years ago… But seriously, now was not the time, actually, on reflection, there is never a good time to learn about grasshoppers, dumb bugs go squish. I did turn the radio on, but Dippy just became louder and louder, so I turned it off again. Oh well, better luck next time. Dippy team mates go squish.

We decided to stop for refs; I do like a luke warm, milky hot chocolate. Good thing we did really. As almost at the exact moment when we finished, a man (I’d say about 30) with his grandparents, started having a fit. Dippy of course, just stood there…, and stood there…, and stood there. So I pushed him out the way and started taking care of the patient, asking the grandparents pertinent questions like: has he had a fit before? Does he have heart or lung problems? (No, I did not ask about underwear, I just hoped) Turns out it was his first ever epileptic fit, and he experienced it in a lovely warm Costa surrounded by itchy coats and loved ones, maybe not too bad really. It could have been in a swimming pool. But that’s another story…

Dippy had finally started on the mountains of paper work. Wonderful. Dippy drove back to the hospital, whilst I sat in the back with the man and his Granny. (She was about 103) Sadly, I didn’t pluck up the courage to ask about the underwear situation, but you could sort of see a ridge where some might be, so I wasn’t too worried.

Each month we are expected to undertake the glorious excitement of, “staff training”, to “refresh skills” and also “bond with the team”. It is as effective as it sounds. Yep, it’s like a freak show.  No-one wants to be there, no-one gets anything out of it, and the biscuits are rubbish; we don’t even get the chocolatey ones.

The “team” (oh the irony of that term) are indifferent and rather stupid; we aren’t brave, nope, not brave at all. No-one has the audacity to say to the management, “Mary” what in the name of The great Tardis Doctor, is this actually for? As we don’t say anything, we are forced to continue with these inadequate rituals. Each month it’s little different, maybe full-fat milk rather than semi-skimmed. But they are always in those horrid, plastic pots.

This month, being November it’s at our local leisure centre. Dear Lord. The new focus is upon our own mental and physical health. Maybe managing to have a proper lunch period would help? Otherwise, of course we eat on the go, usually McDonald’s… well you know its drive through…

Anyway, I digress… Today, we are forced to swim about 50 laps to make sure we are fit and healthy. There is a time limit, but only the Lord knows what that is or was as I don’t think any of us make it.

There are nine of us are standing at the bottom of a walk in leisure pool, all waiting for instructions regarding the next mundane task. I was daydreaming. Suddenly, “Mary” told me to go look up the slide so I did, I wondered if I could sneak down it afterwards for fun.

It looked fun.

I arrived, and saw two guys in jeans, jumpers and the kind of equipment people take camping and cameras. I shouted down to the team that there were boys in the slide. Jack shouted up that I was just insane but came and had a look anyway. I wasn’t insane.

However, trying to get them to come down was another story, they went on and on about their rights, and I think I zoned out, I just kept repeating: “You are not allowed in after 9pm it’s nearly 10:30pm” over and over. I wasn’t going to get anywhere.

They weren’t holding onto anything and were quite far down. Jack had left at some point not sure when, like I said, I zoned out. All you could hear was a wiring and swooshing noise then they were flooded away. I looked over the ledge and could see them at bottom of the slide completely drenched while the other paramedics were taking pictures of their disgrace.

And yes, their underwear was soaked, throughout, and sadly the elastic was a little old….At least there were no Grannies around to witness the spectacle. A final victory for underwear, marking the end of an exhausting twelve hour shift.

© Copyright 2020 Ann Morse. All rights reserved.

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