There are two things in life that terrify me. One is wet wool, but that’s an entirely different story. The second, rodents. Rats. Dirty little fiends with beady eyes, freaky tails and razor like teeth. Usually haunting Hyde Park and other green, bushy areas around Sydney I’ve always thought Paddington to be a relatively rat-free zone. I was wrong.
Last night at around 10.30pm I was walking home after hosting a Mad Men Tour for work. I was walking over the foot bridge to get home, my headphones in and listening to some tunes. I overtook an Asian couple carrying groceries and was no more than 10 meters from my house when out of no where a huge rat started sprinting towards me. I screamed and jumped higher than they do in cartoons, falling on a pile of sticks.
I reached for my ankle, instantly swollen to the size of a cricket ball. As I lay there crying in agony all I could think about was the damn rat coming back to feast on my vulnerable leg, nawing it’s way through my stockings
The Asian couple walked up to me. “Help, I’ve hurt my ankle, please help me there’s a rat” I sobbed.
They starred at me blankly. They looked at each other, then back at me like I was an alien. “No, you fucking idiots I’m not a junky losing her shit. I’m hurt, help me” is what I should have said. Instead I phoned my flatmate Matt. The Asian couple took that as their que to leave. I’d given them an out, they didn’t have to deal with the situation.
Another woman, middle aged and rugged up in a big coat looked at me blubbering on the phone, in pain. She averted her eyes and kept walking.
Matt was on his way and a young guy had stopped in the meantime who seemed genuinely concerned. I told him it’s fine, my flatmate is coming it was ok to leave me. Matt arrived in his socks just as another young woman was walking past she helped us get a taxi to St Vincents Hospital around the corner.
Sitting in a wheelchair in emergency I was in a lot of pain, shivering with mascara dripping down my face. “On a scale of 1-10 how bad is the pain” asks be nurse. I give a very honest 7. I’m sure there will be a day where I need to use my 8,9 and 10. She takes her time getting me some pain killers and in the meantime a stripper offers me a Xanax. Matt suggests it’s not a good idea to self-medicate in emergency but I still pocket the brick for later just in case.
The stripper doesn’t look like she’s in pain, no does really does. There’s an old drunk man who smells like urine and stale beer speaking loudly on the phone. A young guy with drunken red eyes holding his head and the stripper. She thinks one of her implants is leaking. “What did you tell the nurse your level of pain was” I ask? “A 10. You always say 10 and use chest pains as an excuse, that’s how you get in quicker”. Good to know.
It takes 4 hours in total at the hospital. Painkillers, x-rays and a lot of sitting around before a hot doctor with brown curly hair and amazing biceps tells me there’s no breaks. I’ve torn my ligaments and need crutches. No heels for Ms Darlinghurst for the next few weeks.
So, a few lessons learnt from this experience.
- There are rats in Paddington, be warned
- Not everyone is a caring citizen
- St Vincents Hospital is full of shady characters but hot doctors
- A reminder to get pedicures and shave your legs even in winter, you never know when you’ll need to flash your legs in bright lights in front of a hot guy
