Watching slow blood drip can be relaxing. I move my foot a little and the flower on the waiting room floor grows dotted petals. I have been here for three hours so I decide to fill in the spaces between the dots. My picture will be complete by the time they call me. I’m betting they will call me in just under an hour so they do not break any rules.

But after three and a half a cleaner shouts at me and wipes the floor beneath my foot into a sticky red veil. She’s right – I wouldn’t bleed on my own floor like that. But my foot is still bleeding so there is little I can do.

At three minutes short of four hours (I was so, so close) I am called to sit on a different chair, this time around a corner. Hurrah! No sanctions!

Two more hours later, my foot is still oozing – then three stitches in less than two minutes and I can limp home.

I avoid the angry cleaner on my way out.