Now that everyone was conscious again, chaos had broken out in the hospital. Rick and Vyvyan had adopted the ward as their battle ground. Every morning, the rest of the building was woken by the punk and the anarchist bawling insults at each other with numerous uses of the words "bastard", "bloody" and "poof" and you could guarantee that something would get smashed before breakfast.
One particular morning, Mike was sitting up in bed and his nurse (who, unbeknownst to him, had attempted to switch patients with another nurse) was setting up his breakfast tray. The tray held a bowl of porridge (that looked more like something the late, great SPG had thrown up in the middle of the night) and a glass of orange juice that had little lumpy bits swimming in it.
Mike was just about to come out with one of his witty lines to try and impress his nurse but the poor, long suffering woman was saved as something came sailing through the air and exploded on the wall a mere foot above Mike's head. The nurse shrieked and Mike could tell from the lukewarm lumps that had landed on his head, that the wall had just received special delivery of Rick's breakfast.
"For the last blummin' time, Vyvyan, I didn't bloody well put that wasp in your sock! Okay!" Rick was yelling, who, by now, had pinned the couple of his badges that had survived the bus crash to his pyjamas (the Blue Peter badge, one again, upside down on his collar).
"Oh yeah!" Vyvyan shouted, in response.
"Vyvyan! What are you going to do with that scalpel!" Rick hobbled crookedly around the ward with one crutch, pursued by Vyvyan (who was still in a wheelchair with one leg propped up and who had, unfortunately, been practising speeding up and down the corridors each night whenever he got bored).
"Come here, you girl!" Vyvyan shouted wielding the scalpel like a sword (God alone knew where he'd got that from). He wheeled after the terrified anarchist.
"I'm telling you it wasn't me!"
While all of this was going on, Mike's poor nurse had picked up a cloth and was about to clean the porridge off the wall.
"Oh no, that's ok." Neil said from his bed next to Mike. He got up and scraped the porridge into his own bowl with his hand.
"You're going to eat that?" The nurse said, uncertainly, looking at the mess in Neil's bowl and grimacing. Neil looked down and the stodgy mess that now inhabited his bowl.
"Well, yeah." He said, as though it were obvious.
"It's all right, doll." Mike reassured her. "You should see meal times back home." Back on form again, he added "You should come round some time. Things might get saucy and I'm not talking ketchup. Know what I mean?" He managed another sneaky pinch of the nurse's backside but, this time, she didn't retaliate. She was looking in horror at Neil who was happily tucking into his breakfast of rescued porridge.
Looking terrified, the nurse turned and walked briskly from the room, dodging a flying bedpan as she went.
"Eurgh, Neil! Do you have to be so wevolting!" complained Rick, momentarily putting his dispute with Vyvyan on hold. Vyvyan was busy sharpening his scalpel anyway.
"Well, I'm hungry." Neil replied.
"God! It's disgusting!" Rick said, recoiling dramatically.
"What's the matter, Rick? You've eaten meals off the floor before that I've made."
"Yes, I know and they've usually ended up back on the floor, you stupid bloody hippie. God! You've probably been slowly poisoning me so I'll die and you can become leader of the house. That's it isn't it Neil, you evil bastard! You're trying to kill me! I bet it was your fault that the bus cwrashed!" Spat Rick, viciously.
"Hey, stop bringing me down, okay, Rick." Neil said, sadly, shovelling another spoonful of milky goop into his mouth.
"Oh well I am sowwy." Rick said, crossing his arms as best he could round his crutch. "You're not the only one here, y'know. We're all injured and your whining's not helping us feel any better. If it takes us years to wrecover, it's your fault." Rick was so busy berating Neil that he hadn't noticed Vyvyan wheel silently up behind him. The anarchist squealed as he received a swift a stab up the bottom from the newly sharpened scalpel.
"Vyvyan! You bastard!" Rick shrieked. He bent down and picked up Mike's bedpan and chucked it with full force at the punk's head. Vyv ducked, the bedpan missed and instead, hit the opposite wall. Vyvyan reached out and grabbed Rick's crutch. With a tug, he yanked it from the anarchist's grasp. Rick fell flat on his face on the floor. As he was struggling to get up again, Vyvyan brought the crutch down with a hefty blow on his head and knocked him out cold. With a smirk, Vyvyan returned to his own bed and lay down.
"Mike," Neil said in a hushed tone, leaning across "Won't Rick, like, catch pneumonia if he stays down there in his pyjamas?"
"Yeah, you're probably right, Neil." Mike said and went back to his newspaper. After a few moments of silence…
"Well, shouldn't we, like, do something about it? I mean, we are all here to get better and everything."
With a sigh Mike folded his paper, put it on his bedside table and picked up his glass of orange juice. He leant over the end of his bed and poured the contents over Rick's head.
Rick regained consciousness with a splutter, his hair stuck flat to his head with orange juice (suspicious lumpy bits and all).
"Vyvyan! You complete and utter bastard!" Screamed Rick, the second he came round.
Vyvyan flicked the Vs up at Rick from his bed, not looking up from a cheap magazine that he'd found. Rick stormed around, yelling something about being soggy and probably going to catch a cold on top of everything else now, you bastards but nobody was listening.
With a huffy exclamation, Rick flounced crookedly out of the door on one crutch, his nose in the air.
The ward sat in silence for a moment or two.
"Poof." Vyvyan said eventually, breaking the silence, and went back to his mag.