No Figs

The Queen’s been shot. There’s rioting in streets. London burns.

Here in our  beds in our double-glazed, sound insulated hospital we don’t give a fig; at least I don’t – my hip hurts, I can’t walk and the man in the bed next to me talks too much.

I know that I have sinned at times but this punishment is a step (or not) too far. 

God save the leg.

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