Where's my walking stick?

I drove to the hospital earlier today to drop off a bunch of flowers and a get-well card for the elderly gent who collapsed in the station yesterday. I wasn't expecting to be allowed in to see the old guy, but to my surprise one of the nurses said it wasn't a problem and ushered me into his room.

He was sitting up and looked quite chipper. His main concern was his 'staff' or walking stick which had gone missing and the fact that they had cut his clothes off with a pair of shears in the emergency room, where he had gone into cardiac arrest a second time. He was pissed-off about that. I resisted the temptation to tell him that he should be happy to still be with us, clothes or no clothes, given that the grim reaper had him by the short and curlies a couple of times, but I held my tongue.

His wife was with him and she was finally able to solve the mystery of why he hadn't wacked his head  on the ground.  I had been able to grab him in time and lower him gently to the floor, avoiding a nasty bump to his bonce.  I shook his hand and wished him well and we had a little chat before I made my excuses and left. It was good to see him looking bright and perky. With luck he should be around for a few more years. He came so close to checking out. It makes you think...

On the way to the exit I spotted a very old and frail looking woman in a wheelchair just outside the main door. Her drip was on a stand next to her and she was enthusiastically puffing on a cigarette. Driving out I noticed the sign, 'Aberdeen Royal Infirmary. This is a smoke free zone'. You've got to laugh!