Voyage IX – Health & Safety

I was talking to Paul again the other evening. We were sitting in the bar together. Everyone else had gone to bed and it was just me and him. I was reading a book and wishing he’d get the hint but I could tell without looking that he kept glancing at me – hoping I’d notice and give in and start a conversation. Eventually I put the book down, still avoiding eye contact and keeping my finger in the page.

I take a sip of my drink and he harrumphs a bit self-consciously and says ‘Did you really want to know how I died?’ which takes me by surprise somewhat. I nod equivocally and he leans in and says ‘It was a concrete mixer.’
I have a comic image of him being run over by a lorry.
‘One of those little ones on two wheels you see on building sites’ he adds. ‘We hired it.’
I confess I’m intrigued.
‘We were doing my sister’s extension – me and my brother in law, Ted. She had this beautiful conservatory going up – all stained glass and palm trees, and a Jacuzzi. Top of the range it was.’
‘Ok...’ I say, wishing he’d get to the interesting part.
‘We’d been at it all day, making this platform going up to it like. You know. All tiled it was – mosaic. She’s always liked that sort of thing – ever since she was in Crete. Anyway – long story short – I’d never used one of these things before. Ted had. He’d done the new stadium up at Falmer but he’s round the front of the house talking to one of the delivery drivers. Anyway it’s the end of the day and I’m rinsing out the drum as it's going round – with a hose, as you do, and knocking out the residue with a bit of two by four and I gets my hand stuck behind one of those curved blades inside – you know the ones that direct the mix into the centre – and before you know it the drum’s turned and my elbow’s up inside, crooked...’
He demonstrates but I can see what’s coming. I feel sick already.
‘And I start to shout, but not very loud because I don’t want to make a twat of myself and it’s all happening so slowly and I can’t believe I’m watching it happen.’
He goes quiet – leans forward and looks down at his hands, wringing together between his knees.
‘Twisted me whole bloody arm off’ he says. ‘Died of loss of blood. Stupid thing is I didn’t even shout. Didn’t find me ‘til it was too late.’
‘I’m so sorry Paul. I didn’t...’
‘Oh it’s nothing’ he says leaning back. ‘Water under the bridge. But you were right. I’d had a bit to drink. Shouldn’t have been operating machinery at all should I? It’s me own fault.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugs, drains his glass, stands and says, more or less cheerfully ‘Toodle-oo then. Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire’, smiles and heads for the door.
You just never know do you?

Voyage III – Booze and fags

I actually managed to get into an argument today. Hoorah! It was about drugs.
A small group of people were seated in a booth under one of the windows. I, as usual, was ear-wigging from the next bench along. A woman called Cathy was saying how so many people she knew had died one way or another – overdoses, aids, shootings, just stupid accidents. I couldn’t tell if she’d been a druggie herself – she didn’t look the part – rather conventional actually, but she’d evidently known a lot of people who were. A man who’s face I couldn’t see because he had his back to me opined that it should all be legalised – let the junkies do themselves in and save the rest of us from having to put up with all the thieving and so on. I was surprised Cathy didn’t challenge him on this. Somebody else said ‘What about the children?’ and the guy just said it would just be like fags and booze. ‘Authorities could just concentrate on the under-age.’
The conversation ambled about a bit, no one but the one with his back to me wanting to make much of a noise. He started talking about how people had to take responsibility for themselves, and how these bloody crusties and drop-outs deserved everything they got. He didn’t actually say that they (or we, rather) should be rounded up and gassed but that’s where he was heading. I couldn’t resist it. I had to say something...
‘So, you don’t think people should be helped if they get into trouble with drugs.’
‘Not out of my pay packet mate’ he said. I was standing up. I looked down at him. He was a young looking bloke, lean faced, sharp eyed, name of Paul apparently. I pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning forwards on the back of it.
‘What if someone is injured snow boarding?’
‘What?’
‘Recreational injury.’
‘That’s totally different’ says Paul, outraged.
‘It’s exactly the same – people injure themselves doing stupid things for fun all the time.’

‘It’s true’ says a very well-dressed chap, Harvey, sitting next to Cathy. ‘The endorphin rush from almost killing yourself is physiologically indistinguishable from taking opiates, and just as addictive.’
‘Maybe they should just take out insurance’ says another man, Trevor, at the other end of the table, ‘the sportsmen and the druggies I mean.’ He grins conspiratorially at me.
‘What? I do snow boarding...’ says Paul, a little agitated now.
‘I know’ I say. ‘That’s why I brought it up.’
‘How do you know?’
I mime big ears with my cupped hands on either side of my face.
‘Anyway’ says Paul, ‘I am entitled to my health care, free at the point of delivery...’
‘You’ll be lucky...’ comments Cathy. She was a nurse she tells us, so she should know.
‘I have paid my stamp’ says Paul. ‘I am owed – not like these greasy lay-abouts I was on about.’
‘What about professional people with a coke habit?’ asks one of the other women – her name’s Fiona.
‘What about punks on skateboards?’ I add, laughing. We’re all enjoying ourselves now, all except Paul.

‘Alright, alright’ he says, making pacifying gestures with his hands. ‘But I still say drugs are different.’
‘Have you never taken drugs?’ asks Fiona.
‘Might have.’
‘Well then.’
‘But I never let myself get hooked.’
‘But if you had been into it... then what?’
‘But I wouldn’t.’
‘What did you die of then?’ I ask.
‘None of your bloody business’ he says, trying to smile.
‘Booze or fags?’ asks Fiona. ‘It was the booze wasn’t it.’
‘Fuck off’ he says.
‘I wonder how much you cost the NHS?’ I say, getting up to go, my work here done.
‘Fuck right off’ he says in my face. We stare each other out for a second and then I leave.
See? I shouldn’t even try. I never know when to stop.