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Act 1.

It begins with a man called Sam.

Sam had fallen over and hurt his knee. He had been out running and slipped on a mossy paving slab. He slid at first and was able to maintain his balance for a moment. But then he fell hard onto the concrete floor, and he fell in a manner that meant that his left leg seemed to bear the brunt of his weight. He hobbled home in agony and embarrassment. There was a graze but no real cut, but it was obvious straight away that he had done some damage to the interior. He could feel the leg beginning to swell and the knee felt warm to touch. By the time he had gotten home it was as if someone had put a balloon underneath his knee and had begun to slowly blow it up. Sam prodded the knee in curiosity, and then he phoned 111 to see what they thought.

You should probably go to A&E, they told him.

He called a taxi to take him to Denmark Hill and to King’s College Hospital.

Is it urgent?

He didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t that urgent. He wasn’t dying.

Well, I’m not dying.

OK. But is it urgent?

He shrugged his shoulders. What was he supposed to say? If it was urgent, wouldn’t he have called an ambulance rather than a taxi?

Uh. Well, I need to go to the hospital. Can you take me there or not?

I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

OK.

Act 2.

The conflict arose when Sam didn’t want to take the shortcut that the man was proposing.

The taxi had arrived outside his flat 15 minutes late - not that Sam cared. The driver was an old man with grey stubble and he was very overweight. He tried to engage him in chit-chat, but the journey - or the worsening crisis in his knee - was beginning to make Sam feel a little lightheaded and sick. He realised that he hadn’t eaten anything, and it was now close to lunchtime. He closed his eyes and tried to doze. But the man was insistent on chatter, even if Sam remained wholly uncommitted to the game.

The taxi driver was insistent that he knew of a quick route to the hospital.

I’ll take you this little shortcut I know.

I don’t care about shortcuts, just take me to the hospital, please.

Sam’s eyes were closed, but his mind was open enough to want to say to the man: I don’t give a shit what you’re doing, just take me to the damn hospital.

Act 3.

Sometimes, he told Sam, you just have to know where you are heading.

He opened his eyes and could see the man looking back at him: the rolls of his neck like bunched up sausages.

You alright mate?

I’m fine.

He woke himself up and remembered why he was in the taxi and felt a surge of warm pain from his knee again. He paid the taxi driver, who wished him well, and then he was standing outside the hospital’s A&E department.

When he got to the reception a man told him to use the touch screen computer to register himself. He really had little energy for messing about with registration, he just wanted to be seen by a nurse or a doctor or anyone.

With some reluctance, he went to the computer screen which he had passed on his way in near the entrance and it popped up with a message that said: your information is required.