Notting Hill in the Snow. Jules Wake

I could be marking. This lot of undergrads are actually quite intelligent for a change.’

      ‘Blimey, Mum. That’s high praise.’ I stood up to collect her leather laptop bag from the end of the bed.

      ‘I said quite.’ She raised an imperious eyebrow as I handed it to her. ‘Although a couple of them do seem to have genuinely enquiring minds.’

      I laughed at her. ‘By the middle of next term you’ll have knocked them into shape.’

      ‘Well, of course.’ Although Mum put the fear of God into her students in their first term, by the end of the year they all respected and admired her and she always got the top marks when students graded the faculty teachers.

      She fiddled with the zip of the case for a minute and then pushed it away. ‘Actually, I think I might just rest my eyes for a little while. My leg … it’s starting to ache a bit.’ Then, with a quiet sigh, she added, ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

      Outside, beyond the curtain, as Mum dozed, I became aware of the groans of another patient a few cubicles down, a crying baby and a slurring drunk refusing to take off his trousers. I’d exhausted the entertainment offered by my phone; I didn’t think the current scenery would make a particularly fetching Instagram story.

      At last, as I was starting to doze off, a doctor appeared, a young tired-looking woman with a clipboard and a stethoscope around her neck. She introduced herself and asked lots of questions before even looking at Mum’s leg.

      ‘We’ll have to send you to X-ray. There’s a bit of a backlog, I’m afraid. It could be a while.’