For many years, I worked in the medical acute and emergency care department at Red Cross War Memorial Children’s Hospital in Cape Town. One of the jobs was to find berths for sick children who needed formal admission to hospital. During busy times of the year (that became known as the ‘surge season’), finding such precious items was not easy. I expressed my frustrations in a song. As so often the world of musicals came to my rescue. Here it is ‘My Fair Lady’. Eliza Doolittle’s angry ‘Words, words, words’ spat out at the hapless Freddy Eynsford-Hill.
‘Beds’, ‘beds’, ‘beds’! I’m so sick of ‘beds’!
Can’t find one in here;
Can’t find one in there.
I just want to tear out my hair!
This ward is full; that one is, too.
Here’s what they say, – ‘No beds’.
One should not moan ‘cos someone’s on the phone.
They have today – ‘No beds’.
Here I am with patients till they come out of my ears.
Sometimes one fears nobody cares.
Here I am afraid that I am going round the bend.
When is it all going to end??
Here’s one more sprog
Sick as a dog.
After much slog, – ‘No beds’.
Now it’s a wheeze. Oh, pretty please,
Down on my knees…. – ‘No beds’
Here I go on searching from the morning to the night.
It is not right that I must fight.
What am I to do when I am full up to the brim?
Just cram a whole lot more in!
Is there a cot?
No, there is not!
What have you got? – ‘No beds’.
‘No beds’.
I will tell you
What you must do
(More years like this and I sue!):
MORE BEDS NOW!!