When I turned around to check, it was a huge plastic bottle of Irn-Bru.
I stood up and stretched my spine out, and then started to collect the spilled shopping and put it into the carrier bags.
One of them was torn, so I went into my shopper and took out my favorite Bag for Life, the Tesco one with lions on it.
I packed all the comestibles and placed the bags by the old man’s feet. Raymond smiled at me.
We heard the sirens and Raymond handed me my jerkin. The ambulance pulled up alongside us and two men got out.
They were in the middle of a conversation and I was surprised at how proletarian they sounded. I thought they’d be more like doctors.
“All right,” said the older one, “what do we have here, then? The old boy’s taken a tumble, has he?”
Raymond filled him in and I watched the other one; he was bent over the old man, taking his pulse,
shining a little torch into his eyes and tapping him gently to try to elicit a response.
He turned to his colleague. “We need to get moving,” he said.
They fetched a stretcher and were fast and surprisingly gentle as they lifted the old man and strapped him on.
The younger man wrapped a red fleece blanket around him. “Same color as his jumper,” I said, but they both ignored me.
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