They are turning me cautiously on my left side. It hurts like hell. I hear the same sound again. A moment later, I am turned on my back and wheeled ou....People are scurrying about. They are talking. I can make out at least three different voices but can't make sense of the conversation. For them, I am an object. My personality is not important. They are working on me, trying to fix me. I am thankful. No one is going to hurt me anymore. In this moment, I feel my left foot being lifted. Someone's. The little space was lined with a plastic tent of decorators' dustsheets, stretched between fittings and shelves on the bulkheads and joined with tape. It could have looked as cold as a hospital bed, but she had added drapes of red cloth taped to the plastic, shaded battery lights and an Ipod playing our favourite dungeon music, and made a warm cosy room. ?You shouldn't have,? I said, ?I was supposed to fix things up.? ?But then I'd've had to wait.? She was shedding clothes as she. More

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