Taken from the July 2012 issue of Dazed & Confused:

At first I had wanted to gain experience in a hospital that might benefit me in gaining employment. It was not the only reason I volunteered there but I sometimes wish I had made more of this at my interview – that I was not only keen to be involved in the community but also in need of experience to improve my employment prospects. Before I began I imagined myself helping the nurses to save lives, not pushing the shopping trolley, which is how I ended up. 

Was I destined to always work in shops? Pushing the trolley from floor to floor and ward to ward laden with newspapers, gossip magazines, petrol station snacks and toiletries, it seemed that way

Originally I had expressed an interest in helping in A&E but when the lady from voluntary services looked me up and down at the interview she said, you don’t really want to be in there, do you? I think your temperament would be better suited for the trolley. Yes, she continued, that’s exactly where I can picture you. 

I wanted to explain that the reason I was so prone to agreeing with destiny, fate, call it what you will, was that most of my life I had worked in shops, and so, the longer this continued, the more I had become resigned to working in them. Still, she seemed keen to install me on trolley duty, and soon I was to learn that many of the other volunteers, especially the students, preferred tasks in departments that reflected where they were going. Was I destined to always work in shops? Pushing the trolley from floor to floor and ward to ward laden with newspapers, gossip magazines, petrol station snacks and toiletries, it seemed that way. 

I work with Raymond who is eighty-five and who, until his retirement, had worked in shops all his adult life. 

The shift begins on the third and finishes on the twelth floor, which is reserved for private patients. From there, one has the greatest views I have seen of London. On one side there is Hampstead and the wild expanse of the Heath; to the south the capital’s more familiar skyline. It is a terrible cruelty that many of the people in here are not able to enjoy the views from where they lie, for I truly believe that a walk on the Heath has restorative qualities for one’s soul. Some of those here will never set foot outside again, and I feel guilty when I pause too long at the window to admire the view whilst the patient counts out his or her change. “There you are.” I hear a voice behind me, and I position the newspaper in a place that is suitable for their convenience. 

Sometimes you just want someone to hold your hand and tell you that everything will be okay

While the views are subtly less spectacular in the lower wards, they are still exceptional ones. But in many of these wards, where people are only allowed to remain while gravely ill, there is even less likelihood of them enjoying the view. By the time they are fit enough to walk to the window, most of them have already been be discharged at street level. 

On West 6 the nurse points at Raymond and me. Both of us, more than forty years apart, are wearing multicoloured, checked shirts, although Raymond’s is tucked in. 

“Look! It’s the Bay City Rollers!” the nurse says. The windows are thick to keep in the warmth but they also exclude the screams of the children being carried over the Heath from the funfair that is there for the bank holiday. Earlier when I walked past I felt my heart sink because I do not have anybody to go on the waltzers with. 

A lady tells me that the nights are the worst. Sometimes you just want someone to hold your hand and tell you that everything will be okay. She tells me that she considers dialing 999 from the bedside telephone just to be able to talk to someone. At least in the day there are people coming and going. Do you understand what I’m talking about? she asks me. I reply that I do but afterwards I am not sure if I do and I do not tell her that I continue to come here because of my own fears of being alone. That listening to my work colleagues talking about what they will be doing I find myself looking forward to bank holiday weekends but then as it draws closer I begin to panic when I think about how I will occupy so much time. Volunteering to do extra shifts on the trolley had been one of my plans. 

It is better in here than in the nursing home he tells me. There, you had to get your own newspaper.

A Russian man, built like a Greco-Roman wrestler, has his leg in traction. He is handcuffed to a policeman who spends the hours there working on his laptop. 

That evening I sit by my window and watch up and down the street. I listen to Arthur Russell and drink red wine. In my wallet I carry a businesscard-sized flyer for an art show. The name of the show is taken from Arthur Russell’s “A Little Lost”: 

“I hope you need someone in your life Someone like me” Out of wine I decide to return to the funfair with the intention this time of riding the waltzers. By the time I arrive everything is closed so instead I wander around the Heath in the dark. When I look up I can see the lights of the hospital. 

The next day a man asks me: What papers have you got? All of them, I reply. The Jewish Chronicle? He settles for the Telegraph. 

It is better in here than in the nursing home he tells me. There, you had to get your own newspaper. You mean buy it? I ask. No, he replies, I mean get it. 

Tomorrow is the Sabbath so he will not be buying the newspaper. But you can still read it? I ask. As long as I don’t buy it, he mutters whilst counting out his change. 

The following day he is sat up and reading from a leatherbound volume but other than looking up when I enter the room he does not acknowledge me. 

Throughout November we will be publishing an anthology of short stories from our favourite authors to celebrate #NaNoWriMo. Follow them all at http://www.dazeddigital.com/nanowrimo and share your stories with us by tweeting @DazedMagazine with the hashtag #NaNoWriMo.