There I was in the pub. It wasn't the intention to go in the Hand. We were going to go to the Prince of Wales, before going to the Prison Social Club for a benefit night for a prison officer that Jimmy's known thirty years and is dying of cancer. We were supposed to be going with John and Jackie. Walked past the Hand, and John's in there. No Jackie. He's been working away and she's found a hairband in his laundry and thinks he's playing away. He's protesting his innocence. I'm having a laugh with the other John, who has been trying to pull whilst working away and has found no one to pull.
There's a minor commotion further down the bar. Nothing major. Just a shuffle. And the sound of fizzle. And some light. And it fucking hurts and I'm lying on the floor screaming and crying and a woman I don't know is pouring water onto me, holding my hand, telling to me to take deep breaths. She's a first aider. And then within five minutes the police arrive, and a couple of minutes later the ambulance. And I'm at St George's in Tooting.
I'm a veteran of A&E. In my time I've done: Altrincham General 4 or 5 times, Trafford General (when it was Park) twice, Wythenshawe, QMC Nottingham A&E referral, Southend General, Kings, George's twice before, St Thomas's, Oban General. In all those times I have never had reason to complain about the professionalism and attitude of the staff.
Yet last night was a whole new experience. Previously, all my admissions were to a large extent my own fault. Accidents, yes, but self-inflicted. Last night, I sensed something more than mere professional sympathy. I was the 'firework woman'. It was clear to me that the staff felt an anger, because all I was doing was having a drink with friends in my local pub at eight o'clock on a Friday evening. It's my birth right. Basically, I'm the victim of an assault.
I'm really pissed off and angry, and a bit upset. I'm not even thinking about scarring. Maybe it would have been worse if I had taken my coat off - I'd only just arrived. Two sips of gin. It could have got me, or someone, in the face, or the eye. If it had got one of the old blokes with heart trouble, it could have killed them. The Ambulance said St George's might want to transfer me to Chelsea and Westminster; they didn't. Which is good, I assume.
Oh, and my coat and top are ruined, and my bra is no longer sexy.
And of course, I took a photo. I am going to take one of the burn when I change my dressing, but I won't inflict it on you. This ain't a great photo or a great portrait, but that's not the point...
clarification: The consensus seems to be that the firework was thrown in by two boys of about 12 wearing dark clothing. The police say it is unlikely that the CCTV will have picked up much detail in the dark...
