Shane was recovering from a heart op, returning to the Ward after a couple of nights in ICU. He had shattering paralysis after dancing off his bike at high speed on the greasy Galway–Dublin M6 surface some years back, after it first opened. Everyone fussed around him, plugging in his MacBook, popping in his peg feeds. No visitors, just some Enable Ireland interns and a banana board with a smiley emoji face.

Now, now, we’ll have you fixed in no time, Shane. Everyone lift and groan and again. Now. Fixed. In. No. Time. And did you hear? Lift. And down. Lift. And lift again. Count. Fixed in no time. And. Now, ah, you’ll have to work with us, Shane. Want anything in the shop, love? No. K. G’man. Lift, and turn. And lift. Oooh. Ouch. And burst. Down, please. Sudocrem, please.

Margaret Rose Sherlock had had a stroke, most likely. Her bloods were a little wayward. She had further and more pressing complications from a wanker husband who had abandoned her and was now missing-in-action with Bernie, his long-time mistress. Usually, it was only a day or two at most, but Margaret Rose hadn’t been able to locate the exact coordinates of Paddy for some weeks now and so she’d been unable to persuade him to return home. Ordinarily, she’d be relieved with the break, and had become used to it over the years of their marriage, adept at passing off his absence as family business, but her second youngest daughter, Niquita, was soon to be married, and getting tetchy about her father’s absence. Niquita sherlock was, in fact, beginning to panic, for her betrothed, Jonathan O’ Keefe, was getting impatient and developing a habit of looking at young wans of the Lally family.

Margaret Rose Sherlock had a rose-gold Nokia on which she conducted her business. She couldn’t make or take a call without a considered amount of pre-planning the bathroom’s vacancy. Alternatively, for some peace and quiet, she’d dive under the Hospital’s white bed sheet and chat away under there, where she could be still heard perfectly.

Jane Lohan appeared on the surface to be rather genteel. She had some form of dementia, peppered with the oddest moments of intense lucidity, followed by any manner of madness – often manifesting in bizarre physical moves. She was spritely and agile for a woman in her eighties, but seemed all alone in the world, despite claiming a large family of nine grown-up children, and a husband, Tom, for whom she appeared to care (on a practical level), and an unnamed dog that she loved most in the world.

Hospital is Street, with its odd old sumptuary laws, a place to score. You scavenge for razors, shower gel, coffee, a diagnosis that makes sense, and the most sought-after of all, a Care Plan. On the Ward you scored off the care assistant, Michal Piwaski.

‘How’s yar wife, Michal?’ Margaret Rose asked.

‘Oh, is tired … tired,’ Michal said, rushing about with a heavy load of soiled sheets. ‘I need to give her tea and put her feet up and fix her before I leave, see.’ He began lifting my lines, then stood me up, helping me out of my wet leggings.