1988. Glasgow Royal Infirmary, drunk lad pinned down by police and porters, “get tae fk, get aff me ya bastards!” face slashed (bottle/knife?) skin flapping, blood spraying up the curtains, on the docs white coat. “Keep still!!”
My job, apply pressure (try not to get stitched to mental boy in the process) fingers scarily close to needle, thick black silk, no plastic surgeon, no operating theatre. Finally, the doc finished, another ‘Glasgow smile’ done.
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