The Godfather, it turns out, is a regular Stephen Hawking, which is handy in a place like this, where the computers crash regularly, and also because I often need his help. Wingabby is my medical term, unfortunately for me. Being more interested in surgery means I find the long ward rounds and physician-like discussions more tedious and confusing than ever. There’s no operating theatre with Dr Prince to pop into to break up the day a bit, just neverending discussions about Mr Larson in bed 9’s worsening renal failure.

I arrive on the ward and ring Dr Woo, my consultant, to tell him our sickest patient, Mrs Richards in bed 4, has a high fever and her blood pressure is dropping. The consultants are all fly-in fly-out from a variety of other, bigger hospitals, and when it’s time for the fly-out part of their contract their plane waits for no man, meaning they wait for no patient or junior doctor. Dr Woo is already at the airport, even though it’s only midday.

‘Call the registrar,’ he tells me. I can hear flights being announced in the background. ‘I’ll be back on Thursday.’

I’ve only met the registrar briefly. She’s so busy we usually only have time for a cursory discussion about the patient list first thing in the morning then we go our separate ways. We have so many patients it’s nearly impossible to keep track.

I call her anyway. ‘I think Mrs Richards is septic.’

‘Who?’

‘Urosepsis, seventy-two, has a glass eye,’ I remind her.

‘Does she have an advanced care directive?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I reply.

‘She’s not for resuscitation though, is she?’

‘I don’t think that’s right,’ I say. ‘I heard her saying to the nurse the other day that she wants to be resuscitated if she has a heart attack.’

‘Has she said that to you directly?’ She sounds irritated.

‘Well, no,’ I admit, ‘but she’s delirious now, probably because of the urosepsis, so she wouldn’t be able to tell me even if she wanted to.’

A sigh of relief pours down the phone. ‘Okay, palliate her.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what Dr Woo told me last week,’ my registrar says. ‘She’s got an NFR, she’s suffering, it’s time. Call the palliative care nurse.’

‘But she’s got a treatable infection,’ I point out. ‘We charted the right antibiotic this morning, the nurse just hasn’t given it yet.’

‘What? Okay, stop the antibiotic. Chart the palliative care meds.’

I want to argue but I’m met with a dial tone. I go and take a look at Mrs Richards, who is curled up in the foetal position and letting out an occasional tortured groan.

‘I’ve called the palliative care team,’ the nurse informs me.

‘Really?’ I’m surprised at how efficient she is. Normally nurses force junior doctors to do everything, even tasks they can easily do themselves.