‘We’re here for you,’ Nicole, the head of junior doctor admin, assures us. She clicks to the next slide. ‘We don’t want you to feel as if you can’t speak out.’

I entertain myself by texting Max. How’s your resilience, mate?

Shit, he replies immediately. I need to do more mindfulness.

MINDFULNESS IS MEDICALLY PROVEN TO BE GOOD FOR YOU, I read on the screen.

I stifle a laugh. The hospital’s solution to everything is for us to attend the mindfulness classes which no one is allowed to go to because it would mean being away from the ward for too long. But not to worry, Nicole explains. If we can’t make the classes, there’s an app we can download on our phones! Forget patient deaths and bullying and job application pressures; as long as I can count to four and centre myself with my mindfulness app, I’ll be good to go.

I mentally appraise Nicole as she instructs us all to put away our phones and pagers for one minute and take a big breath in and count to four.

Nicole is younger than me, maybe twenty-five, if that. Her youth is obviously an asset, as opposed to mine signifying only lack of experience, and she has already begun her stratospheric ascent up the ladder of medical administration. She has long shiny chestnut hair tapering into perfectly blunt ends. What is it, I wonder, thinking enviously of the Smiling Assassin, with every female in this hospital and their goddamn perfect hair? Her luscious locks tumble down over ample breasts and, even though she is a bit on the chubby side, she isn’t trying to hide it. Her dress leaves little to the imagination. The whole image—the hair and the pink heels and pink-painted lips—oozes sexuality. From the appreciative glances of the male doctors, I can tell I’m not the only one admiring her outfit.

Are we going to drinks tonight? Max, also not breathing in or counting to four, is texting me again.

As if on cue, four seconds and a few more big breaths later, Nicole announces that a drinks night has been organised at the pub near the hospital for all the new interns, the admin staff, and anyone else who wants to drink away their sorrows. She doesn’t put it quite like that, but phrases like ‘morale raising’ and ‘team bonding’ are well-known HR euphemisms.

Yeah, mate, I write back. I’ll be counting to four, all right—four wines.

I hear a snort from three rows in front and see Max’s shoulder shaking suspiciously, and grin. We have always loved making each other laugh.

After work, we meet Estelle outside the hospital. She has a maniacal expression on her face.

‘If I could I’d inject alcohol intravenously …’ she says, a dangerous glint in her eye. ‘I have had the day from hell.’