I stood behind her at the A&E check-in desk. She had short purple hair. Sixty five. Clear framed glasses. She was waving a black hand fan. The lady on the desk asked who her next of kin was.
‘Stacey,’ she said.
‘What’s her number?’
She opened her phone. Scrolled through. Big font. She found Stacey, sandwiched between ‘Rent Please’ and ‘Steve Church’.
She pressed the green button and Stacey’s phone rang.
‘Hi Stacey, what’s your number?’
She repeated staccato through the glass:
‘O seven’
‘Three two one two’
‘Double nine eight seven two’