"He says his name's Dod Broon and he lives wi his wife Maisie in Bakers Place in Gattonside, can't remember the house number cos he never writes to himself, or the phone number for the same reason," that's okay, said the Paramedic, we'll be able to find out; "he seems quite lethargic," said Pollyanna, but when we told him he was wrong about the year he became quite lionhearted and accused us of lying, I don't know if he's confused, but he's got quite a yen for going home, as soon as possible," she added, "once he's been checked over and we've contacted his wife and found out what the situation is there, the doctor's will take the decision," said the Paramedic, whose name, she read from his ID was Thomas Learmonth, "are you descended from Thomas the Rhymer?" she asked, feeling rather cheeky, particularly as she wasn't naturally flirty, especially not with men, "yes, he's an ancestor of mine, at least, according to my dad, who's a bit of a pierian himself," and he laughed, if you can call his doggerel poetry – he writes the Thought for the Week in the Telegraph!" and Pollyanna grinned: "they're bloody funny, all in the local dialect, some of my English friends think he makes up the words himself!" and Tom, as he told her to call him, agreed, "I'm convinced he does, in order to find a rhyme, but he'd never admit it, anyway, we'd best get poor Dod along to the hospital, I'm sure they'll get him fixed up okay," and before her goes, Pollyanna asks him: "can you let me know if he gets kept in, I'd like to visit him, just see that he's okay," and Tom grins back: "no problem Miss, err?" and she says, just call me Pollyanna, maybe see you manyana," and waves as Dod is lifted into the ambulance on a trolley, "poor old bugger," she said to Carmine Rose, who was watching by her side, "yepp, Babes, and poor old Maisie must be frantic, wondering why he didn't come home, whether it was today or twenty years ago!"