Fright Night in A+E

Shona arrived in the Glasgow Western A+E (aptly named) with a sprained ankle after losing an argument with a staircase earlier that day. As she limped to the reception desk and gave her details, she glanced up at the triage board.

Estimated waiting time “four hours”.

She sighed, but the ankle had blown up like a balloon animal at a children’s party, so home wasn’t an option. She took a seat and settled in.

The triage area soon turned feral. Ambulances screamed in one after another, trolley wheels rattling like skeleton bones. Nurses barked instructions, as people screamed, while porters weaved through the chaos with grim efficiency. Cuts, breaks, burns every ailment known to man seemed to arrive in bulk.

But this was Glasgow city centre on a Friday night, and the drunks had come out in force like an incoherent army.

There were lads leaking claret from bottle wounds, heroes with stab marks who “didnae feel a thing,” and one man arguing loudly with a vending machine that had clearly wronged him. Blood spattered trainers, ripped shirts, and the unmistakable aroma of cheap wine and lager and regret hung in the air.

Arguments broke out over chairs. A woman screamed that she was bleeding internally while scrolling her phone. Somewhere, a couple were breaking up loudly, complete with tears, accusations, and a crutch cracked over the mans head.

Shona sat back, ankle throbbing, watching it all unfold like a live soap opera. Casualty, but with worse acting and strong Glasgow accents. Every so often, a paramedic would rush past, reminding everyone that beneath the madness, real emergencies were happening.

Still, the night was only beginning.

And Shona, in no particular hurry and mildly medicated on painkillers and people-watching, found herself perversely entertained by the frivolities of other people’s misfortunes knowing fine well that before the night was out, she’d have her own tale to add to the horror show of Fright Night in A+E.

By the time the clock crept past midnight, the waiting room had developed its own ecosystem. Shona’s ankle had reached a new level of swelling, no longer a balloon, more like a novelty beach ball and she’d given up pretending it might deflate.

The army arrived in platoons, chests puffed out despite obvious injuries, each one insisting they were fine. One had a blood-soaked towel pressed to his head and kept announcing to anyone who’d listen that he’d “won the fight,” despite the fact he was swaying like a fiver in the wind.

Another strutted in with a deep gash in his arm, claiming it was “only a scratch,” while leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail of blood across the linoleum. He refused to sit down, pacing instead, shadow-boxing an invisible opponent and muttering about respect and the Queensberry Rules.

“Ah’ve been stabbed before,” he told the room proudly, as if listing previous league titles.

Across from Shona sat a wee guy with a split lip who flinched every time someone coughed. He kept glaring at the hard men, clearly desperate to prove he belonged in their ranks but knowing fine well he’d faint if he stood up too fast.

An inebriated woman in leopard print who had went oot awe brammed up trying tae get lucky and ventured back looking like the bride of Chucky. Mascara streaked like war paint and laddered tights, screaming at the receptionist because she’d been waiting twenty minutes and had places to be. A man loudly declared he was allergic to hospitals while drinking from a can of cheap cider he’d smuggled in his jacket. Someone started snoring and farting. Someone else started crying. No one knew why.

The nurses, meanwhile, were operating on pure rage and caffeine.

One marched out from behind the desk, eyes dead, clipboard clutched like a weapon.

“If ye can shout, ye can breathe,” she barked, silencing half the room instantly. “And if ye can breathe, ye can wait.”

A drunk tried flirting with her and was dispatched with a single look that could’ve stopped a heart. Another nurse confiscated a man’s phone mid Facebook Live rant with the efficiency of a prison guard.

Doctors drifted through like ghosts creases etched into their faces, shirts splattered with things best not identified. One young doctor stared at the triage screen, rubbed his temples, and whispered, “It’s only Friday,” as if realising the weekend had barely begun.

At one point, a full-scale argument erupted over a charging socket. Voices rose, insults flew, and a hard man with a bandaged hand offered to “sort it outside,” before being reminded firmly that outside was how he’d ended up here in the first place.

Through it all, Shona watched, ankle pulsing like something from a Tom and Jerry cartoon, pain ebbing and flowing with each fresh wave of madness. She shared a knowing glance with an older woman clutching her ribs, both of them silently agreeing that this was better than telly.

When Shona’s name was finally called, she almost felt disappointed.

She rose, limped forward, and took one last look at the battlefield of broken egos, bloodied pride, and heroic stupidity. Behind her, the waiting room roared on another Friday night in the Western A+E, where everyone had a story, most of them unbelievable, and none of them going home any time soon. How the West was won.

Time in the Western A+E didn’t move forward, it circled
and mocked the situations that arose. Simply a case of rinse and repeat every weekend.

Shona was convinced she had landed in the set of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, the waiting room had reached peak lunacy. The air was thick with antiseptic, sweat, stale alcohol and regret. Somewhere, a child cried. Somewhere else, a grown man howled because he’d been asked to remove his own sock.

The hard men had evolved.

One now lay flat on the floor, arm in a sling, loudly announcing he was “bleeding oot internally” while eating crisps. Another, shirtless for reasons no one could explain, was giving an emotional talk about loyalty, betrayal, and why he definitely wisnae drunk.

A third tried to smoke a cigarette under the NO SMOKING sign and was stunned, to be told this was frowned upon, to which he pulled out a vape much to the nurses anger, who sternly glared until he returned it to his pocket.

The nurses were no longer human. They had crossed into legends and pacifiers.

One glided past like a battle-hardened general, snapping gloves on with a sound that struck fear into the soul, and you seen the men wince at the thought of where she was going with those gloves. Another nurse, powered entirely by coffee and spite, shut down a near-riot with five words.

“Sit doon. Or go hame.”

Silence fell.

A handsome junior doctor attempted small talk with Shona while examining her ankle, then apologised for existing with a bright red face and disappeared into the chaos, never to be seen again. A consultant swept through, issuing orders like a man extinguishing fires with a teaspoon.

At one point, a stretcher burst through the doors at speed, followed by a parade of professionals accompanied by two policemen who looked like they’d already lived several lifetimes that night. The room sobered instantly just for a moment, before returning to madness as if on cue.

Shona’s ankle was finally X-rayed, prodded, poked, and discussed in hushed tones as though it had committed a crime. She was informed it wasn’t broken, which felt deeply unfair after everything she’d been through.

Then came the boot.

A nurse emerged carrying it like a holy relic. Thick. Black. Industrial. The kind of thing you could kick down a door with.

“This’ll dae ye,” she said, strapping Shona’s left leg in with ruthless efficiency.

Shona stood, wobbling slightly, feeling like a deep sea diver. She was handed discharge papers, painkillers, and a look that said don’t you dare come back tonight.

As she hobbled towards the exit, she passed the same hard men still arguing, still bleeding, still undefeated in their own minds. A new ambulance screeched in blue lights flashing. Fresh chaos poured through the doors.

Outside, the night air hit her like freedom.

She stood for a moment, booted, battered, and utterly exhausted, listening to the sirens fade behind her. Four hours older. One industrial-strength boot wiser.

Shona limped home victorious, strapped up, sent on her way, and grateful to escape Fright Night in A+E alive. An experience Shona will never forget.

J. J. Whelan