FATE…
Two years ago, I pulled over at a bus stop late at night to grab some cigarettes. After buying them, I spotted an old bloke sitting on a bench, looking rough—pale-faced, clearly unwell. It was past one in the morning. I walked over and asked if he was alright. He mumbled something about his heart playing up and said someone had called an ambulance—he was just waiting. I scratched my head, then asked the shopkeeper how long he’d been there. Her answer floored me. Since about eight in the evening… Bloody hell.
The old boy was pushing 70—no war veteran, maybe, but he’d definitely put in his years grafting for the country, building the life we take for granted. I didn’t buy his “I’m fine” act. Scooped him up, chucked him in my Nissan, and floored it to the nearest A&E.
Getting in wasn’t straightforward. Some jobsworth security guard tried to wave me off, saying I had to park and walk. Fat chance. I’d been around hospitals enough to know the main doors get locked by five, forcing you to trek round some back entrance. No way was I lugging him that far. If ambulances could drive in, so could I.
Inside, there was a knackered-looking doctor and a heavyset nurse. I handed the old man over, explaining his heart was dodgy and that no ambulance had shown. The nurse hit me with the usual red tape—no NHS number, no paperwork, no real help unless I coughed up. Private treatment or a trolley in the corridor, take your pick. I nearly lost it.
By then, the old boy felt like family. I asked what ID he had. He fished out his pension card—no address, just a name. I filled in the blanks myself, and for £3, the nurse scribbled a temp insurance note. The doctor wheeled him off for tests, telling me to hang tight for half an hour.
I slumped in a chair, scrolling my phone. No idea how long passed before the doc returned with a shopping list—toiletries, slippers, meds. No rest for the wicked. I dashed to a 24-hour shop, grabbed everything, even woke the hospital chemist for prescriptions. Got back, dropped it all at his bedside, ready to leg it.
Turns out he was awake. He gave me his address—other side of town—and asked me to tell his family he wasn’t dead. The missus answered the door, proper panicked, with her daughter and a toddler in tow. They’d been ringing every relative with a car to search for him. I explained, talked them down from rushing to the hospital right then—wait till morning. They insisted I stay the night.
Three years on, we’re still living together.
Moral? Do good. Might just be fate.
