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Chicken dinner

As I finish my ward round on High Care one of the nurses pulls me to one side.

“Doctor, can I see you?”

“Certainly.” She drags me into the small nurses office and begins describing her symptoms. I try to listen earnestly but find it difficult to concentrate. In the background there is what can only be described as the sound of gentle gobbling. I look around. It seems to be coming from behind the nurse. I try to look over her shoulder. She moves to block my view and carries on describing her symptoms. I nod seriously a couple of times and edge to one side. She moves again, but not before I succeed in localising the sound to a plastic carrier bag on the floor.

I bend down to look and tweak the bag open. There, looking up at me, is a small white chicken. Unlike most chickens I have encountered in carrier bags it is not skinned, cling film wrapped and indeed, dismembered. It clucks at me, as if to emphasise the fact and then shits industriously.

The nurse glances at me, looking highly embarrassed. More at the fact of the presence of the chicken than its tendency to defaecate in public I decide.

“It is for my sister,” she says.

“For what?”

“For dinner.”

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