My head is spinning and I feel as though if I stop typing I’ll float away or fall over or… I don’t even know. It’s like the helium balloon feeling, but bad. Very, very bad.

I feel as though somebody’s chucked a jigsaw puzzle of the last 24 hours into gravity-less air and the pieces are floating and flying in every direction and I can kind of see them all but I don’t have a hope of making any kind of sense of them unless I can get them to settle. Maybe writing it all up will help time to fall back into order.

So like I said earlier, the next thing I remember is waking up and it was dark and the policewoman telling me the ambulance was on its way. I must have been conked out for hours – it was late afternoon when I was attacked and the middle of the night when I woke up. I only vaguely remember the ambulance. Even though I could feel I was more or less in working order, it was still a bit freaky so I was mostly focussing on keeping calm. Sure enough, at the hospital, they said my injuries were pretty superficial and would clear up in a few days. They wanted to keep an eye on me for concussion, but after a few hours I wasn’t showing any signs of it so they let me go.

Those hours felt like the longest of my life. They shut the curtain of my cubicle, so I could hear the rabble but couldn’t see anything but the murky green of the curtain. For a while, I entertained/distracted myself by trying to guess what was up with people by the sounds they were making. The old guy singing old songs and at one point harmonising with the ambulance as it pulled up… I’m going to go with ‘dehydrated.’ There was one woman who I hope for her sake was having a baby, but it sounded more like she was getting her leg sawed off with no aesthetic. Then there was the crowd of guys who kept trying to continue the fight that had presumably landed them in hospital, and were separated about twenty times by increasingly irritated nurses. People make Glasgow, eh?

The worst part of the hospital was the tests for the police. I told them what I could remember, even though it was all a bit of a blur. Bizarrely, I kept describing the attacker as a bear. I don’t really know why, obviously it was a person, but something about him left me with that impression, and every time I started to doze off in the cubicle in A&E I had weird, trippy nightmares about a bear being after me.

They asked if they could examine me for any traces of DNA, and I felt a bit like a lab rat as they prodded and swiped and scraped every inch of me. Even though I get that DNA is microscopic and it’s not as simple as this, in a weird way it felt like a relief, as though they scraped him off me and took him away in their wee bags and test tubes. The woman who did the examination didn’t say much, but at the end she pointed out I had loads of skin scrapings under my nails so I must have given him what-for, and that made me puke, so at least my dignity stayed intact.

Then they asked if there was anyone they could phone for me and if I’d had a scrap of dignity left at that point it would be gone because I automatically went to tell them Craig, then realised they couldn’t phone him, so instead I just howled in this poor wee nurse’s face for minutes and minutes. So that was a brilliant end to a fun excursion to A&E.

I could have phoned Cara or Solveig, or even Granny, but I phoned a taxi because I just felt like a wounded animal. I wanted to retreat into a wee corner and lick my wounds in solitude. Which would probably have been the best idea, but instead I somehow gave the driver the address Craig gave me to forward post or bills, at which point my night really went to shit.

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