I’m almost relieved when the Joker calls me on my mobile. No doubt he knows that I’m leaving the country tomorrow and wants to make the most of the one day we have together.

‘I don’t care that you’ve been away,’ is his opening line. ‘It doesn’t make up for the fact that half the bloods haven’t been ordered.’

‘That’s the job of the doctor who was on last night,’ I point out, ‘when I wasn’t actually here.’

‘Don’t make excuses,’ he snaps.

I hold my phone in front of me and mouth, ‘FUCK OFF!’ as forcefully as I can.

His voice, unfortunately, continues to spew out of the microphone. ‘Come to theatres now,’ he instructs. ‘I wanted you there five minutes ago.’

I walk as slowly as possible to the operating theatre, wondering why it is that I can be terminated for failing to wash my hands thoroughly, while the Joker and the Smiling Assassin can be as heinous as they like and suffer no consequences.

I arrive at theatre six to see a man covered in blood fleeing the area. I step back as he charges towards me.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask. Normally people covered in blood are lying unconscious on the theatre trolley, not running out of the place.

The man is spluttering with indignation. ‘He threw a tub of betadine at me!’

‘What?’

‘I’m one of the porters,’ he explains, ‘and that surgeon just threw a tub of betadine at me because he said I wasn’t holding my hands up high enough.’

‘So that’s not blood?’ I gesture at his shirt.

‘No! It’s fucking betadine!’

He storms out of theatres, raging about physical abuse in the workplace and threatening to lodge an official complaint. I raise my eyebrows as I start to scrub in. It appears the Joker has now progressed to physical harassment. Things have obviously escalated in my absence.

I hear stories like this a fair bit. Max has told me that he once saw an orthopaedic surgeon throw an IV pole at one of the residents because he didn’t have his scrubs tucked in.

‘How did he get away with that?’ I asked Max.

He shrugged. ‘Who knows? The more senior you are, the harder it is for them to touch you, I reckon.’

Personally, I don’t think being a senior surgeon should excuse someone for being a total maniac, but that’s how medicine works. I also don’t understand how being an arsehole will increase your surgical dexterity, but maybe I just haven’t had enough experience yet.

I finish scrubbing in and reluctantly enter the operating theatre, where I put on the sterile gloves and gown.

The Joker tells me to get a move on.