‘I am a doctor,’ I say, mentally returning to the patient in front of me. ‘I’m Dr Prince’s intern. I’m going to see you first and then he’ll come by this afternoon.’

‘What?’ The man looks affronted. ‘I can’t stay until this afternoon, so he’ll have to come right now.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘He’s operating all day.’

I realise I need to actually figure out what this guy is doing here before the argument continues.

‘Where’s your paperwork?’ I ask. ‘If I could have a look at your referral that might make things a bit easier.’

His wife rummages through an old leather handbag and produces a folder with John—Medical written on the top.

I open the folder to see the letters GBM beaming up at me.

John’s wife must have seen my facial expression, because she leans in. ‘We tried to get him treated at the hospital near our farm,’ she confides, ‘but they said it wasn’t worth operating on. The tumour is too close to something or other.’

GBM is the acronym for glioblastoma multiforme—unfortunately for John, as it is the most common and most deadly primary brain tumour. For a second, absurdly, I remember the Shark on a ward round telling me that in the latest WHO classification they’ve dropped the ‘multiforme’ and technically we should just refer to it now as ‘glioblastoma’. ‘Neurosurgeons are inherently lazy,’ he said to me, looking irritated. ‘They keep saying GBM instead of the correct term: glioblastoma.’

I look at John, who’s staring steadfastly out the window, and doubt very much that he gives two hoots what we call the tumour non-consensually invading his mind. I could refer to it as ‘Fred the Bastard’ and it wouldn’t make a difference.

‘So, we got a bit desperate,’ Mrs Wilde finishes.

Fair enough.

‘Our daughter started googling surgeons who might want to operate, and we found Dr Prince on the internet.’

‘So where is he?’ John suddenly turns around. ‘He’s not even here. I knew these big smoke surgeons weren’t going to be any good.’ He folds his arms and glares at me.

‘John!’ his wife exclaims, looking at me anxiously.

I feel sorry for him.

‘It’s all right,’ I say, ‘Dr Prince will definitely see you. But you’re going to have to stay on the ward at least overnight.’ Then, seeing his frown, I add, ‘I’ll organise accommodation for your wife. The hospital will cover it.’

John’s silent. I look down at his worn leather boots, slightly caked with mud, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.