As ever, all brickbats welcome

The next day was Tuesday. Home day. I was awake before the 6:00 AM clatter of trolleys and shoes announced the start of the morning’s hostilities. Still, it was past 11:00 AM before a doctor saw me and announced I was fit to be discharged.

Yesterday’s clothes were inside my bedside locker. They felt sweaty, but what’s a guy to do? It had been a while since I had had anyone at home who could have brought me a change of clothes. I dressed, trying to shrink my body from the dirty material, then arranged my belongings. Tie folded neatly so it wouldn’t crease, tucked into my inside pocket. Paperwork from the police folded into quarters and stowed in the other inside pocket. House keys in the right jacket pocket. Wallet tucked away from pickpockets in my left front trouser pocket. I checked in the locker for anything forgotten. Then around the locker. Finally, around the bed.

Everything present and correct. I nodded to myself. Then checked them all again, just in case the pixies of lost things had somehow fooled me.

I know. It’s irritating, isn’t it? You know when you’re all set to go to the pictures, and you have to hurry, because the film starts soon? And your partner says, ‘I’ll just check everything is switched off before we go.’ You know everything is switched off, because your partner is that sort of person. But they check everything anyway. And then they check everything again. And just as you sit in the car they say, ’Oh, did I lock the back door?’ And you know that they have, but you also know that you won’t be allowed a minute’s peace until they go and check. You know that sort of person? Well, that’s me, that is. Oh, nothing weird. I won’t go on a killing spree because someone has replaced a book on the shelf in non-alphabetic order. But I just have a need for order and routine. It’s the accountant in me.

So then I made a final pat-down of my pockets and put my motorcycle boots on. On the plus side they strapped up nice and tight, supporting my ankle. The jacket was still serviceable. I’d just look a bit of a plonker sitting on a train wearing bike gear. Oh well.

I came out of the main entrance and got my bearings. Guy’s Hospital. If you’ve ridden into London Bridge Station you’ve seen it. It’s the tall tower just to the south of the station. You can’t miss it. Sadly, though, the same can’t be true finding the station from the hospital.

I found an ornate tourist signpost near the entrance and turned right towards the station. At the end of the street was a steel stair, twisting its way up two storeys, followed by a metal walkway over the buildings to London Bridge Station. I didn’t fancy the exercise, but on the other hand, walking around might take an age.

I was nearly at the top when I heard some flash git start running up the stairs below me. Maybe a jogger. That seemed to me to be as pointless an exercise as crosswords. I was sure most joggers were jogging themselves into an early grave. It was just as well that this guy was jogging outside the hospital. Nice and convenient for when he collapsed from a heart attack.

I was a few yards down the walkway when the jogger started along the walkway behind me. I moved over to the left-hand side, turning slightly to see him pass.

The punch landed in my right side, just under the damaged ribs. I caught a glimpse of gelled spiky hair and a gold earring under a white hood before he cannoned into me, bringing me facedown onto the ridged metal floor.

He fell on top of me, knees in the small of my back, one hand heavy on the side of my head, pinning me to the ground. I flailed at him with my right hand, but do you know how puny a punch delivered backwards behind your back is? My left arm was trapped between the railings, the deck and my body. I tried to put all my weight onto my left hip. He was going to have to work for it if he wanted my wallet in my left pocket.

Instead he went through my jacket pockets as I swore at him and slapped about with my free hand. From somewhere up ahead a man shouted. My assailant shoved my head hard onto the metal floor as a fond farewell, then ran off back towards the stairs.

My rescuer came running up, and for the second time in two days I was on the floor looking up at a kneeling Samaritan.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, fine" I said, embarrassed. He helped me up as I winced and grimaced.

"Are you hurt? Do you need the hospital?"

I grunted. It was funny, in a cruel sort of way. "Thanks, but I’ve just come from there."

I hobbled the few feet to the stairs in time to see the mugger sprinting down the road. He wore a white hoody with a navy stripe down the back, jeans and white trainers. I started to memorise the description. Like that was going to help. He could have been anybody.

"Did he take anything?"

I checked my pockets. "My keys. The bastard took my keys."

"Did they have your address on them?"

I shook my head. "No."

He looked at me, concern on his face. "Are you sure you don’t need the hospital? What about the police?"

I shook my head again. I was shaking, but with anger more than anything else. I had felt so useless, so used, as the mugger had rifled my pockets. I had been violated and all I wanted to do was get home. I thanked my helper and moved on.

The train ride home was uneventful. No injuries, no weird characters, no new pain. At the other end I treated myself to a taxi. First to the letting agents, to pick up a spare set of keys, then to my maisonette.

I opened the front door and surveyed the stairs up to the apartment. I wished I had rented a ground-floor maisonette. At the top I turned right into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Then I crossed over into the living room. The answer machine was flashing its message light at me. I hit the play button. It was my boss.

"Hi, Peter. It’s Dave. Sorry to hear about your accident. I hope you’re OK. Anyway, when you hear this, can you phone me back, so I know what’s happening, and you can let me know what your diary is like. We need to get you work spread out through the rest of the team. But don’t worry, whenever you can."

And so it continued, until the answer machine cut him off. Dave would never use one word when five would do.

Well, that could wait. I needed a bath. I walked round to the bedroom. I emptied my pockets onto the bedside table. The tie went onto the tie rack in the wardrobe. The motorcycle gear hung on the hooks on the wall, boots underneath. Shirt and trousers folded and put into the laundry basket.

Yes, I know. Why fold them when they’re dirty? This was the reason Shirley had left me. One of the reasons. One of the many reasons. Who’d have thought that being tidy was so unbearable?

I limped into the bathroom and ran the bath. Then into the kitchen.

Mug of tea in hand, I returned to the bedroom and surveyed the damage to my body in the full-length mirror.

Actually, it didn’t look too bad. A bruise and graze on my thigh. A bruise on my shoulder. Below the bandage on my ankle the foot was turning black. At some point the helmet must have hit my face, causing a swelling to my lip. All very spectacular, but all superficial. To my disappointment, the cracked ribs didn’t advertise themselves visually at all, despite the pain. What’s the point of that? If you are going to be in pain, at least you should look as though it hurts.

I sat in the bath, ankle hanging over the side to keep the bandage dry. I closed my eyes and let the steam wash over me. God, what a couple of days. I could eat out for ages on the stories. I sank into the hot water.

In the living room the phone rang, jarring me out of my half-slumber. The answer machine cut in, but the caller didn’t leave a message. I tried to relax again. Five minutes later the phone rang again. It was ruining a good soak, and again there was no message.

I got out of the bath and dried myself off. If it was double-glazing, I was ready for them to ring a third time. Oh yes.

The doorbell rang. I threw on a pair of jeans and T-shirt. The bell rang again.

"OK, OK" I muttered, as I hobbled towards the stairs. "I am an invalid, you know."

I had just reached the top of stairs when I heard a sound that froze me in my tracks. It was the sound of a key sliding into the lock of my front door. I could see the outline of a man in dark clothing through the frosted door window. The door opened and I looked down into the startled face of the hospital priest.