September 2026 | On the peculiar characters of Emergency Department, a Saturday spent eating, shopping for unnecessary things, and discovering that balance looks nothing like the diagrams.

Life contains too many overlaps, interruptions, and peculiar little pleasures to be represented accurately by one attractive diagram.

There is a particular species of healthcare professional who can tell you exactly where the missing ECG machine has gone, which doctor has already spoken to radiology, why the patient in cubicle seven is still waiting, and which member of staff has disappeared in search of a working infusion pump. I have encountered several of these extraordinary individuals in the Emergency Department, and I remain convinced they possess access to a secret communication network unavailable to the rest of us. I call them the Department Oracles. They do not appear to consult notes, make telephone calls, or ask anybody for information. They simply know. Sometimes I wonder whether they were born inside the hospital and have been quietly observing its activities ever since. Whatever their methods, I consider their knowledge a public service, particularly when I have already spent fifteen minutes trying to establish where somebody has taken a piece of equipment that was definitely available earlier.

Working as a Stroke Clinical Nurse Specialist means that I spend a considerable amount of time in and around the Emergency Department. Some days, everything proceeds with reasonable efficiency. Referrals arrive, assessments are completed, relevant imaging and investigations are reviewed, and the team works together to determine the most appropriate next steps. Other days, the hospital seems to have organised an elaborate test of everybody’s communication skills, patience, and ability to locate essential equipment under increasingly unreasonable circumstances. I enjoy the clinical challenges of my role, but I have also developed an appreciation for the fascinating variety of personalities that appear whenever several people are working under pressure. By the end of this particular week, I had mentally assembled an entire cast of characters. If the NHS ever decides to produce a workplace comedy, I would be delighted to provide the character descriptions, although I suspect the writers would find some of our actual experiences difficult to believe.

Golden Referral

First, there is the Golden Referral. This is the rare and deeply appreciated colleague who contacts the stroke team having already assessed the patient, gathered a coherent history, considered relevant clinical findings, checked the available investigations, and prepared the essential details required for a meaningful discussion. When the information is presented clearly, I sometimes experience a level of gratitude entirely disproportionate to the length of the telephone call. I want to thank the person twice, perhaps send a formal letter of appreciation, and nominate them for an award in the category of Outstanding Contribution to Everyone Else’s Sanity. In a busy clinical environment, a well-organised referral is not simply pleasant. It supports timely decision-making, reduces unnecessary repetition, and makes the next stage of patient care considerably easier to coordinate.

Quick Question

Then there is the Quick Question, whose name is among the most misleading expressions in hospital vocabulary. The conversation usually begins with an innocent request. Somebody wants to ask something briefly, perhaps about a scan or whether a particular presentation should be discussed with the stroke team. Naturally, I listen. Five minutes later, we are reviewing a CT scan from 2019, discussing several previous admissions, considering information provided by a relative, and attempting to establish the relevance of a medication whose name nobody seems entirely certain about. Just when I believe the conversation is approaching a sensible conclusion, the person says, “Actually, while I’ve got you…” I have learned that these four words should never be interpreted as evidence that the discussion is nearly finished. In hospital language, they are often the opening credits to an entirely new episode.

Human Fire Alarm

Another familiar character is the Human Fire Alarm. This person approaches with an expression suggesting that the hospital has approximately forty seconds remaining before an unspecified catastrophe. Their footsteps are purposeful, their voice carries an unmistakable sense of urgency, and everybody within hearing distance becomes immediately attentive. Sometimes the concern is genuinely time-critical, and the dramatic entrance is entirely justified. Other times, the information turns out to be considerably less urgent than its delivery. I have learned to listen carefully before allowing somebody else’s level of excitement to determine my own response. The actual clinical concern matters far more than the speed at which it is announced, although I must admit that some colleagues possess an extraordinary ability to turn an ordinary update into something resembling the evacuation instructions on an aeroplane.

Iceberg

The Iceberg, meanwhile, deserves enormous respect. This is the person who remains composed while the department appears to be experiencing approximately seventeen different problems at once. Telephones ring, monitors sound, patients arrive, relatives request information, and somebody begins explaining why a particular investigation has not yet been completed. The Iceberg listens, considers the situation, and responds with a calm suggestion about what should be addressed first. I admire these people because the equivalent discussion inside my own head occasionally contains more commentary than I would care to disclose. Outwardly, I may be assessing priorities and responding appropriately. Internally, there is sometimes an entire committee debating the circumstances, and at least one member is asking whether anybody has remembered to eat.

Equipment Pilgrim

Then comes the Equipment Pilgrim, last seen announcing that they are simply going to find a pump. This sounds like a straightforward undertaking until the person disappears into the department and does not return for what seems like an unreasonable period. When they eventually reappear, they may have found the equipment, discovered that it is being used elsewhere, or collected several unrelated responsibilities during the search. The journey has apparently taken them through multiple clinical areas, introduced them to people requiring assistance, and provided an opportunity to investigate a completely different problem. I sometimes suspect that searching for hospital equipment should count towards one’s daily exercise target, although I would rather not discover how many steps are accumulated through activities that could have been avoided if everything remained where it belonged.

Space Magician

There is also the Space Magician, who somehow manages to identify a chair, monitor, suitable area, or practical arrangement in a department that appeared completely full only moments earlier. I remain impressed by this ability because physical space is not something one can ordinarily produce through optimism. Yet certain colleagues have developed such an intimate understanding of the department that they can identify possibilities nobody else has considered. Their talent is particularly valuable when several patients require assessment and the available environment is less cooperative than anyone would prefer. If the NHS ever introduces a specialist competency in locating a chair and a functioning plug socket simultaneously, I imagine these individuals will qualify as consultants.

Biscuit Consultant

My personal favourite, however, may be the Biscuit Consultant. Their contribution to healthcare is not formally recognised by any clinical guideline, but I believe it deserves serious investigation. This is the colleague who appears at precisely the moment everyone has begun looking exhausted and announces that there are biscuits somewhere. The transformation can be remarkable. A group of healthcare professionals who have spent hours discussing complicated clinical responsibilities suddenly becomes interested in the location of a packet of digestives. Somebody produces tea, another discovers chocolate biscuits, and the atmosphere briefly improves. I am not suggesting that biscuits can resolve staffing difficulties, operational pressures, or the many challenges facing healthcare services. But I have witnessed enough exhausted nurses becoming unexpectedly cheerful at the sight of a shared snack to believe that the relationship between carbohydrates and workplace morale deserves further consideration.

Tension Breaker

Then there is the Tension Breaker, the colleague who makes precisely the wrong remark at precisely the right moment and somehow produces laughter when everybody needs it. Hospital humour is a peculiar thing. A comment that would seem completely unremarkable outside the clinical environment can become extraordinarily funny after several hours of demanding work. Someone says something ridiculous about an ordinary inconvenience, a few colleagues laugh, and for thirty seconds the atmosphere becomes lighter. Then everybody returns to their responsibilities, perhaps feeling slightly more capable of dealing with the remainder of the shift. I value that kind of humour, provided it remains respectful of patients and their circumstances. Sometimes colleagues need permission to laugh at the absurdities of their working environment without making the people they care for the subject of the joke.

Of course, I cannot describe this unofficial hospital cast without acknowledging the character I probably become during particularly busy shifts. I suspect I am occasionally the Stroke Magnet, attracting almost every conversation containing the words facial droop, weakness, speech disturbance, dizziness, or the especially vague but potentially important observation that somebody “just doesn’t look right.” These presentations require careful assessment, and distinguishing a possible acute stroke from other clinical conditions can be challenging. I may begin the day planning to review referrals and provide specialist assessment, only to discover that the shift has developed into a collection of telephone discussions, scan reviews, patient assessments, clinical conversations, and explanations that require far more time than originally anticipated.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, my coffee accompanies me around the hospital without ever receiving the attention it deserves. I can purchase or prepare a perfectly respectable drink at the beginning of a shift, carry it from one location to another, and discover several hours later that it has become cold enough to qualify as an entirely different beverage. There have been occasions when I have returned to a cup and briefly wondered whether it was mine or somebody else’s abandoned contribution to the department’s beverage collection. I like coffee enormously, but I am beginning to suspect that its principal role during certain shifts is to provide reassurance that I once intended to have a break.

One of the most dangerous phrases I encounter is “while you’re here.” It sounds friendly and convenient, which is precisely why it should be approached with appropriate caution. I can arrive in ED intending to review one patient and find myself answering another question before reaching the cubicle. Somebody needs an opinion about imaging, another wants to clarify a referral, and a third person has suddenly remembered something important concerning a completely different patient. None of these conversations is necessarily inappropriate, but their cumulative effect upon my original plan can be impressive. By the time I eventually reach the person I came to assess, I sometimes feel as though I have completed a small tour of the department without properly leaving the same corridor.

Despite the demands, I appreciate working alongside colleagues whose different skills and personalities help the department function. The Golden Referral provides useful information. The Department Oracle helps locate people and equipment. The Iceberg brings composure to complicated circumstances. The Space Magician finds practical solutions. The Biscuit Consultant reminds everyone that food exists, which is occasionally an important discovery. Even the Quick Question generally comes from somebody trying to clarify something relevant to patient care. A busy hospital depends upon countless small acts of cooperation that rarely receive formal recognition, and I have become increasingly appreciative of the people who contribute them.

By the time Friday arrived, however, I had reached the point where even my thoughts seemed to require an opportunity to sit down. Nothing particularly dramatic had happened to me personally. I was simply tired from a week of clinical responsibilities, interruptions, conversations, and the ordinary demands of being expected to think carefully for extended periods. There had been work to complete, things to remember, and the endless assortment of administrative responsibilities that adulthood produces whenever it suspects somebody may have a spare moment. I enjoy my profession, but I was looking forward to a day when the most difficult decision might involve choosing between two things on a restaurant menu.

Saturday, fortunately, seemed prepared to cooperate.

I had absolutely no intention of turning the day into another carefully organised programme of self-improvement. I did not need an ambitious itinerary, an educational activity, or an opportunity to demonstrate that I was using my free time productively. I wanted food, a little shopping, time with Jan, and the sort of ordinary enjoyment that does not require an explanation. After several days of clinical discussions, I was particularly interested in problems that carried no serious consequences whatsoever. My first difficulty involved getting the pearls through the straw of a Taiwanese bubble tea from No. 9, and I found the change in responsibility wonderfully refreshing.

The drink was creamy, sweet, and exactly what I fancied. The tapioca pearls, however, appeared to possess opinions about whether they intended to cooperate with the straw. I have always enjoyed bubble tea, but there is something mildly ridiculous about a drink that occasionally requires more suction than the average person considers reasonable. The pearls gathered at the bottom, apparently conducting a meeting about their future, while I continued drinking with the determination of somebody who had paid for the entire contents and intended to receive them. Compared with the complexities of acute stroke assessment, this was a problem I felt entirely qualified to manage.

Alongside the bubble tea was a soft steamed bun, which looked sufficiently appealing to justify a photograph before being eaten. Naturally, I took more than one picture. There is something about food that makes me temporarily convinced I am documenting an important culinary development rather than preparing to have a snack. I adjusted the angle, considered the lighting, and eventually decided that the evidence was sufficient. The bun itself disappeared considerably faster than the photographs might suggest. I sometimes wonder what future generations would think if they examined my camera roll and discovered the extraordinary attention I have devoted to ordinary meals. Perhaps they would conclude that food played an important role in my life. They would not be wrong.

What I enjoyed most was the freedom to buy something simply because I wanted it. I had not completed a major project, received an award, or achieved a significant professional milestone requiring celebration. The bubble tea was not a reward for surviving the week, although one could probably construct a convincing argument if necessary. I wanted a drink, so I bought one. I fancied a steamed bun, so I ate it. There is something surprisingly satisfying about making such ordinary decisions without attempting to attach them to a larger purpose.

I think adulthood has developed an unfortunate habit of demanding explanations for pleasure.

We speak about treating ourselves after a difficult week, rewarding ourselves for an achievement, or allowing a small indulgence because we have earned it. Those are perfectly reasonable ways to think about enjoyment, but I wonder why every pleasant purchase must be justified through previous effort. Sometimes I want coffee because I like coffee. Sometimes I want dessert because it looks delicious. And sometimes I want a completely unnecessary little object because it is cute and I have temporarily decided that this is a sufficient contribution to civilisation.

This philosophy became particularly dangerous once I entered the shops.

I have discovered that my ability to resist unnecessary purchases is reasonably strong until somebody places a cat on the merchandise. A plain keychain may receive a brief glance before I continue walking. Add a tiny cat face, however, and the object suddenly becomes a matter requiring serious consideration. It is as though the department responsible for managing my financial judgement has received an instruction to suspend ordinary operations whenever feline imagery is involved. I already live with Miyuki and Luna, two cats whose expenses and preferences occupy a respectable part of our household arrangements. Apparently, supporting actual cats is not enough. I must also acquire objects featuring fictional ones.

That was how a Mofusand character toy became part of my Saturday. It served no essential purpose, offered no practical improvement to my daily routine, and could not reasonably be described as a necessary household acquisition. It was simply adorable. I examined it, appreciated the design, and decided that its complete lack of usefulness was not a compelling reason to leave it behind. I have spent enough of my life purchasing things because they perform a particular task. There was something enjoyable about choosing a small object whose principal contribution was making me smile whenever I noticed it.

I suspect the toy would not survive a serious financial audit. An accountant might reasonably ask how it contributed to my household’s long-term objectives, whether it represented an appropriate allocation of discretionary spending, and if I had considered alternative investments. I would have to explain that the little character looked charming and that, for reasons I was not prepared to defend academically, this seemed sufficient. I imagine the discussion would conclude rather quickly, although perhaps not in my favour.

Then I found a pink lucky-cat keychain, complete with little charms, and whatever remained of my purchasing restraint became considerably less persuasive. I liked it immediately. The colours were cheerful, the design was delightful, and it seemed exactly the sort of object I would enjoy finding attached to my belongings. Did I need another keychain? Absolutely not. Had the absence of this particular item caused difficulties in my daily life? Not even remotely. Nevertheless, I purchased it with the confidence of somebody who had identified an important gap in her personal collection.

There is something amusing about how adulthood gradually fills our homes with objects we once believed we would never need. When we are younger, we imagine that being responsible involves making sensible decisions, purchasing practical things, and avoiding unnecessary expenses. Then we become older, develop personal interests, and discover that a tiny pink cat can produce more immediate happiness than several perfectly functional household purchases. I still believe in managing money sensibly, of course. But I also think there is room for the occasional modest indulgence that offers no significant advantage beyond a pleasant feeling.

The shopping trip continued among old books and records, where the atmosphere became considerably quieter. I have always loved second-hand bookshops because they offer something different from the efficient predictability of online shopping. When browsing online, I am constantly being informed what people with similar interests have purchased, what the algorithm believes I might enjoy, and which products are apparently essential to my continued development as a functioning adult. It can be useful, certainly, but there is something exhausting about being understood so aggressively by a computer.

In a second-hand bookshop, nobody appears particularly concerned about my browsing history. The shelves contain novels, biographies, old editions, unfamiliar authors, and books whose previous owners remain entirely mysterious. I can pick something up because the title interests me, because I like the cover, or simply because its placement catches my attention. There is no recommendation engine explaining that the book has been selected specifically for a woman with my purchasing habits. I enjoy the uncertainty. Sometimes I discover something wonderful. Other times, I spend several minutes examining an unusual book before deciding that I have no intention of reading it. Either outcome is perfectly acceptable.

I am particularly fond of books that show evidence of having belonged to somebody before me. A softened spine, a name written inside the cover, or a little mark on a page can make me wonder about the person who once owned it. Did they enjoy the story? Did they finish reading it? Was it a favourite they eventually decided to donate, or a book they abandoned halfway through because the author had exhausted their patience? I occasionally invent entire histories around these objects, which is probably unnecessary. The book may simply have been donated during an ordinary house clearance. But I enjoy the possibility that a story has already passed through several lives before finding its way into mine.

The records provided another pleasant distraction. Album covers can return me to periods of my life with remarkable efficiency. Sometimes I recognise an artist and immediately remember a particular song, journey, or stage of growing up. Music has a strange ability to preserve circumstances that photographs do not always capture. I can hear a familiar melody and remember how I felt during a completely ordinary afternoon years ago. I enjoy that unexpected connection between sound and memory, particularly because it does not require me to sit down deliberately and examine the past. A song begins, and suddenly a little part of it has returned.

I suppose there is something refreshing about spending an afternoon following curiosity rather than necessity. I was not shopping for equipment required at work, purchasing groceries according to a list, or searching for something the household urgently needed. I was simply looking at things that interested me. Some of them were useful, others entirely decorative, and a few would probably remain unexplained if somebody unfamiliar with my personality examined the shopping bag. Yet I enjoyed the whole experience. After a week in which almost every activity involved some degree of responsibility, the freedom to browse without an important objective felt surprisingly luxurious.

The main plan for Saturday, however, was dinner with Jan at The Bricks Kitchen & Bar in Wolverhampton. I had been looking forward to spending the evening together, particularly because the working week had left me with very little enthusiasm for complicated decisions. There is something reassuring about going out for dinner with somebody who knows you well enough to understand your habits without requiring extensive explanation. Jan is familiar with my enthusiasm for food photography, my tendency to examine menus carefully, and the possibility that a meal may need to remain untouched for several additional seconds while I decide whether the first photograph has captured it properly.

We settled in, examined the menu, and enjoyed the lovely novelty of having somebody else prepare the food. After a demanding week, I have a particular appreciation for meals that arrive without requiring me to plan ingredients, cook, wash several pans, or consider whether the leftovers will fit into the refrigerator. I enjoy cooking sometimes, but there are evenings when the most attractive aspect of a restaurant is the complete absence of responsibility for what happens in the kitchen. My principal task was to decide what I wanted, eat it, and remember to photograph it before it disappeared. I considered this a perfectly reasonable assignment.

The food did not disappoint. We enjoyed calamari, baked pasta, and beautifully prepared fish served with vegetables, potatoes, and lemon. The dishes looked delicious, and the portions were satisfying. I am particularly appreciative of restaurants that understand the importance of serving a proper meal rather than arranging three artistic fragments on an enormous plate and expecting the customer to admire the negative space. Presentation matters, certainly, but I also like leaving a restaurant feeling as though I have actually eaten. The Bricks managed to provide attractive dishes without making me question whether dinner had been intended as a conceptual exercise.

Naturally, I photographed the food. The fish looked beautifully arranged, the baked pasta was wonderfully inviting, and the calamari deserved its own little moment of attention. I took one photograph, inspected it, and considered whether another angle might be better. It is extraordinary how quickly I can become interested in photographing a plate of food that I am simultaneously eager to eat. At one point, I suspect the lemon had received more photographic consideration than certain important events in my life. Jan, fortunately, has developed a remarkable tolerance for this process.

There comes a stage in a long relationship when your partner no longer questions why you require another photograph of something that appears almost identical to the previous picture. They simply recognise that the documentation phase has not yet concluded and wait with the patience of someone who has accepted the arrangement as part of ordinary life. Jan has witnessed enough of my enthusiasm for taking photographs to understand that intervention is generally unnecessary. Eventually, hunger wins, the camera is put away, and the meal can proceed. I appreciate his patience, although I suspect he would be perfectly content with considerably fewer images of restaurant plates.

Dessert followed, which I considered an entirely appropriate continuation of the evening. I have never understood the argument that a good dinner should automatically conclude without something sweet if dessert is available and appealing. There are occasions when I am perfectly satisfied after the main course, certainly, but this was not one of them. The dessert arrived covered in chocolate and generously dusted with icing sugar, with a small mint leaf attempting to introduce a respectable amount of greenery into an otherwise unapologetic arrangement. It was attractive enough to deserve photographs and delicious enough to ensure that the photographic session remained relatively brief.

I enjoyed the dinner enormously, not simply because the food was good but because it was pleasant to spend time with Jan without the usual interruptions of an ordinary working day. Long relationships develop their own routines, and I have come to appreciate the comfort of sharing meals, conversations, and familiar experiences with somebody who has been present through many different stages of life. There is no need for every outing to celebrate a special occasion. Sometimes sitting together, discussing the week, and enjoying good food is more than enough reason to leave the house.

When I was younger, I probably associated memorable outings with something particularly impressive. A holiday, an anniversary, a carefully organised celebration, or a destination that required considerable planning seemed more deserving of attention than an ordinary meal. Over time, however, I have become more appreciative of the everyday moments that make relationships familiar and comfortable. There is something lovely about spending time with someone who knows your preferences, recognises your little habits, and understands that you are occasionally incapable of eating a meal before photographing it from several perspectives.

Of course, the evening did not end when we returned home.

Friends came over later, and our house underwent the familiar transformation that occurs when several people gather in a space previously occupied by a relatively sensible number of humans. Bags appeared on chairs, drinks collected on available surfaces, snacks were opened, and conversations began overlapping before anybody had finished introducing the original subject. I enjoy having friends over because there is something pleasantly informal about spending time together at home. Nobody needs to dress for a special occasion or follow an elaborate programme. People can settle comfortably, talk about whatever comes to mind, and occasionally become involved in activities that reveal how competitive otherwise respectable adults can become.

We decided to play Jackbox.

For anyone unfamiliar with it, Jackbox is a collection of party games in which players use their phones to submit answers, participate in challenges, and occasionally vote on responses that have absolutely no business being taken seriously. It is wonderfully entertaining, particularly among people who are comfortable enough to be ridiculous in one another’s company. Within minutes, our living room had become an unofficial competition involving jokes, questionable answers, enthusiastic voting, and several individuals who appeared to have forgotten that the points possessed no real-world value.

There is something fascinating about watching adults become emotionally invested in a game that offers no meaningful reward. These were people capable of managing employment, finances, responsibilities, and the general complications of ordinary life. Yet once the game began, we were arguing over scores with an intensity usually reserved for matters of genuine importance. Somebody’s answer deserved more votes. Another person had misunderstood the question. A response that was clearly ridiculous had somehow received an unreasonable amount of support. There were accusations of unfairness, laughter, and attempts to justify choices that became less defensible the longer they were explained.

I found myself becoming unexpectedly competitive. I do not believe my future depended upon the outcome, but apparently some part of my personality considered the scoreboard a matter worthy of immediate attention. There is something slightly embarrassing about discovering how much satisfaction can be derived from producing a ridiculous answer that other people happen to find amusing. At one point, I was doing rather well, and Jan had also secured a respectable position. I briefly considered whether this represented evidence of exceptional intelligence, quick thinking, or superior strategic ability. More realistically, it demonstrated that we were reasonably capable of producing nonsense under pressure. I accepted the achievement anyway.

What I remember most clearly is the laughter. Somebody would submit an unexpected answer, and the room would erupt before anyone had fully recovered from the previous round. Another person would attempt to defend a response that deserved no defence, making the situation even funnier. There were moments when people could barely explain themselves because they were laughing too much. The television displayed scores and questions that would mean absolutely nothing to anybody outside the room, but to us they had temporarily become the most important information available. After spending much of the week discussing clinical concerns and professional responsibilities, I found it rather satisfying to care about something so completely inconsequential.

It was also lovely to hear the house filled with noise. During ordinary evenings, home can be quiet, particularly when work has left us tired and everyone is content to settle into familiar routines. I appreciate that peace, but I also enjoy the energy that arrives when friends gather. Conversations become louder, laughter interrupts sentences, and the room takes on a different character. Our cats may have opinions about these changes to their usual environment, but I suspect they have become accustomed to the occasional disruption caused by humans enjoying themselves.

By the end of the evening, I was tired, but it was a different sort of tiredness from the exhaustion I had carried home from work. There had been no urgent referrals, no missing equipment, and no complicated clinical decisions requiring immediate attention. I had spent the day eating food I enjoyed, looking at books and records, purchasing little things that made me smile, having dinner with Jan, and laughing with friends over a television game. Nothing about the experience was particularly impressive when described as a list of achievements. Yet I felt noticeably better than I had at the end of the working week.

That contrast made me think about something I have been reconsidering lately: the idea of balance.

For years, I imagined a balanced life as something that could be represented by a beautifully divided pie chart. Work would occupy a reasonable portion, relationships another, health and rest their own carefully measured sections, and personal interests would receive whatever proportion appeared appropriate. Everything would be organised, nothing would dominate excessively, and the resulting diagram would provide reassuring evidence that I had successfully managed the responsibilities of adulthood. It was a lovely concept, particularly for somebody who enjoys planning. Unfortunately, actual life has shown very little interest in presenting itself through such cooperative percentages.

Some weeks, work occupies far more attention than I intended to give it. There are demanding shifts, professional responsibilities, and practical matters that require concentration even after the working day has ended. Other periods involve family matters, personal commitments, or circumstances that temporarily change what I can reasonably manage. There are evenings when I intend to read but fall asleep instead, mornings when I plan to accomplish several tasks and discover that the day has developed alternative arrangements, and weekends that disappear into errands before I have fully appreciated that they have begun. If I attempted to represent each day through a pie chart, I suspect the resulting collection would resemble evidence of a particularly unstable financial institution.

I used to interpret imbalance as something that needed immediate correction. If work had occupied too much of the week, perhaps I should compensate by filling the weekend with activities. If I had not read enough, exercised enough, or completed sufficient personal projects, I might feel that my free time needed to become more productive. The difficulty was that this approach gradually transformed rest into another responsibility. Instead of allowing myself to enjoy an afternoon, I would begin considering whether I was using it effectively enough. Leisure had acquired a performance review, and I was apparently both the employee and the manager responsible for conducting it.

Saturday reminded me that ordinary enjoyment does not always require such careful accounting. I had not spent the day developing professional skills, achieving a personal milestone, or making significant progress towards an ambitious goal. I bought bubble tea, ate a steamed bun, browsed old books, and purchased cat merchandise whose practical contribution to my life was almost entirely nonexistent. I went out for dinner with Jan, enjoyed calamari and dessert, and later became absurdly competitive during a party game. If somebody had asked what I accomplished, I would have struggled to provide an answer that sounded impressive.

But I had enjoyed myself.

I think that should count for something, even if it does not translate neatly into a productivity report. There is value in activities that exist simply because they are pleasant. Reading a book does not need to become a professional development exercise. Spending time with friends does not have to involve a significant occasion. A meal can be memorable because it tasted delicious and the company was good. Sometimes the things that contribute most to our enjoyment of life are the ones that serve no obvious practical purpose beyond the moment in which they occur.

I have begun questioning why adulthood makes us so suspicious of the unnecessary.

We spend much of our lives acquiring things because they fulfil a function. Our phones organise communication, our cars provide transport, our household appliances perform tasks, and our professional equipment supports responsibilities that need to be completed. Even hobbies can become something we are encouraged to monetise, improve, or turn into evidence of personal development. There is an entire industry devoted to persuading us that every activity should contribute towards becoming a more successful version of ourselves. Sometimes I simply want to enjoy being the version I already am, preferably while eating dessert.

The little Mofusand toy and pink lucky-cat keychain became amusing symbols of that thought. Neither purchase was essential. They did not make my working week easier, solve a problem, or improve my professional competence. They were small objects I found charming, and I enjoyed bringing them home. I am not suggesting that financial responsibility should be abandoned in favour of unlimited purchases of cute merchandise. My household budget would be the first to object. But I think there is room for modest pleasures that do not require elaborate justification.

Perhaps balance is less about allocating equal portions of time to every category and more about recognising what we need during different periods. A demanding working week may require additional rest. A period of isolation may make social company particularly welcome. Sometimes the most useful response to several days of serious responsibilities is an evening spent doing something thoroughly unserious. I do not believe that the value of an experience can always be determined by how much it contributes towards future achievement. Occasionally, the value lies in enjoying it while it happens.

I also realised how much I appreciate the ordinary familiarity of spending time with Jan and friends. Major celebrations are wonderful, and I enjoy travelling, birthdays, and special occasions as much as anyone. But most of our relationships are lived through smaller moments. There are meals, conversations, supermarket visits, evenings at home, familiar jokes, and the countless repetitions that gradually create a shared history. I do not want to become so focused upon the next significant occasion that I overlook the ordinary experiences making up the time between them.

The Jackbox evening was a perfect example. Nobody had travelled somewhere extraordinary, announced important news, or achieved anything that would require a formal celebration. We simply gathered around a television and argued enthusiastically about answers to questions designed for entertainment. Yet the laughter was genuine, and I suspect I will remember parts of that evening long after forgetting the details of the working week that preceded it. There is something reassuring about knowing that people can still enjoy themselves without requiring an elaborate reason.

Later, when I looked through the photographs on my phone, I noticed how unrelated the images appeared. There was the bubble tea, a steamed bun, a collection of books and records, a Mofusand toy, the pink lucky-cat keychain, beautifully presented food at The Bricks, chocolate dessert, and a Jackbox scoreboard that would probably be meaningless to anyone who had not participated. Taken separately, the pictures hardly suggested a coherent narrative. They looked like the contents of a rather peculiar shopping list interrupted by several meals. But together, they represented the day exactly as I remembered it.

I have always liked taking photographs, including pictures of things that other people may consider entirely unremarkable. I know that not every meal requires visual documentation and that an ordinary Saturday probably does not need an extensive photographic archive. Nevertheless, I enjoy preserving these little details because they often remind me of circumstances that existed outside the frame. A photograph of dessert can bring back the conversation I was having with Jan. A picture of a game scoreboard can remind me of somebody laughing so hard they could barely explain their answer. An image of a small cat keychain may recall the quiet pleasure of browsing shops after a demanding week.

Perhaps that is one of the reasons I find ordinary photographs more interesting as time passes. We tend to preserve the major events of life because they are obviously significant while they are happening. Weddings, graduations, birthdays, holidays, and professional milestones receive the attention they deserve. But ordinary afternoons often disappear into the larger collection of days we no longer remember individually. A photograph can preserve a detail that helps recover the atmosphere of one of those afternoons. It does not need to be artistically impressive. Sometimes it simply needs to remind us what happened.

By Sunday, the familiar responsibilities of the coming week were beginning to return to mind. There would be alarms, work, clinical discussions, and probably another opportunity to hear somebody say “while you’re here” before I had completed the task I originally intended to do. The laundry had not disappeared during our evening of entertainment. The calendar remained interested in its usual collection of commitments, and my professional responsibilities had not become any less significant because I had enjoyed a Saturday away from them. Nothing about the day had fundamentally changed the practical circumstances awaiting me.

Yet I felt better prepared to return to them.

Not because bubble tea had magically restored my energy or because winning points during Jackbox had developed some previously undiscovered clinical skill. I had simply enjoyed a break from constantly thinking about things that required my attention. I had spent time with people I cared about, eaten food I liked, and allowed myself to become interested in objects and activities whose consequences were pleasantly insignificant. The change in pace had been welcome, particularly after a week when so much of my attention had been occupied by professional responsibilities.

I am beginning to think that my imaginary pie chart was never a particularly useful way of understanding how life works.

It assumed that every important part of living could be represented through tidy categories and that the objective was to distribute time among them in the correct proportions. But relationships, responsibilities, health, work, and personal interests do not necessarily require identical amounts of attention every day. Their importance changes according to circumstances, and a sensible arrangement may look different from one week to the next.

There are also experiences that refuse to fit neatly into a single category. Was dinner with Jan part of our relationship, leisure, food, or simply the perfectly respectable business of eating? Was Jackbox an example of social connection, recreation, or evidence that several adults had temporarily abandoned their dignity? Did browsing old books count as personal enrichment, entertainment, or another opportunity to practise restraint in the presence of attractive covers? And where, precisely, should I place the purchase of a pink lucky-cat keychain? I suspect any attempt to classify that transaction would require the creation of an entirely new category.

Perhaps that is the problem with trying to measure life too neatly. The things that matter do not always arrive in forms convenient for analysis. A professional accomplishment can bring satisfaction while also requiring significant effort. An ordinary evening can provide enjoyment without producing anything tangible. A conversation may become meaningful unexpectedly, while a carefully planned activity can turn out to be less enjoyable than anticipated. Life contains too many overlaps, interruptions, and peculiar little pleasures to be represented accurately by one attractive diagram.

I still appreciate planning, and I doubt I will ever become somebody who approaches responsibilities with complete spontaneity. I like knowing what needs to be done, organising my time, and working towards meaningful goals. Those habits have helped me professionally and personally, and I have no intention of abandoning them. But perhaps I can become less determined to evaluate every enjoyable experience according to whether it has contributed enough towards something else. Some activities deserve attention because they make the life we are already living more pleasant, not because they promise to improve a future version of it.

I thought about this again when I noticed the little pink lucky-cat keychain among my belongings. It looked cheerful, slightly ridiculous, and entirely unaware of the amount of philosophical consideration it had inspired. In practical terms, it had achieved very little. It had not helped me assess a patient, organise my work, or respond to any of the demands I had encountered during the previous week. It would probably spend most of its existence hanging from a bag, accompanying me to places where nobody would pay particular attention to it.

But I liked it.

There was something unexpectedly satisfying about that simple fact. I did not need to invent an elaborate explanation or convince myself that the purchase represented an important investment in my wellbeing. It was a small object I enjoyed, bought during a pleasant afternoon, and associated with a day spent doing things that made me happy. That was enough. I suspect my younger self would have understood this immediately, before adulthood introduced the expectation that every decision should demonstrate sufficient practicality.

I imagine the coming week will bring another assortment of Emergency Department characters. The Department Oracle will continue knowing things nobody else knows. The Human Fire Alarm will probably arrive with another urgent announcement. Somebody will disappear in search of equipment, and the Biscuit Consultant may once again provide a contribution to morale that deserves greater recognition. I shall return to my role, respond to referrals, review patients, and attempt to manage my coffee more successfully than I did last week. There will be serious responsibilities requiring appropriate attention, and I am grateful to work in a profession where what I do can make a meaningful difference.

But I hope I also remember Saturday.

I hope I remember that life outside the hospital deserves space even when work has been demanding. I hope I continue making time for Jan, friends, books, music, and the little interests that remind me I am more than my professional responsibilities. I want to remain ambitious and committed to developing my clinical practice, but I do not want to turn every free hour into another opportunity to demonstrate productivity. There should be room for ordinary enjoyment, including the kind that leaves no evidence of accomplishment beyond a few photographs and the lingering satisfaction of having had a lovely day.

Perhaps the pie chart was wrong because it treated everything as a competition for limited space, when some parts of life actually make the others easier to appreciate.

A demanding week can make a quiet dinner feel particularly welcome. Spending time with friends can remind us that conversations need not always involve serious concerns. The pleasure of reading, listening to music, or exploring a shop can provide a welcome contrast to the concentration required at work. These experiences are not always separate categories with clearly defined boundaries. They overlap, influence one another, and contribute to a life that is rather more complicated than a perfectly divided circle.

I do not know whether I shall ever achieve the beautifully balanced routine I once imagined. Given my tendency to accept responsibilities, plan more activities than time reasonably permits, and purchase cat-themed objects whenever my financial judgement becomes distracted, I suspect the odds are not especially favourable.

But perhaps I can become better at recognising when life has offered a pleasant moment and simply enjoying it without immediately calculating what it should contribute to the future.

The pink cat remains a completely unnecessary purchase. The Mofusand toy has not improved my professional prospects. The Jackbox scoreboard is unlikely to appear in any respectable appraisal, and I doubt there is a recognised clinical competency entitled Successfully Extracting Tapioca Pearls Through a Straw. Dinner at The Bricks did not resolve the operational challenges of the NHS, and the chocolate dessert has made no measurable contribution to my continuing professional development.

Nevertheless, I consider Saturday a success.

Years from now, I may not remember which referral occupied my attention that Friday, which piece of equipment somebody spent half an hour locating, or how many times my coffee became cold before I finally accepted defeat. I may forget the minor inconveniences that made the week tiring, or the conversations that seemed urgent at the time but eventually disappeared into the ordinary history of working life. But perhaps I will come across a photograph of that little pink cat and remember the afternoon it came home with me.

I will remember the bubble tea, the steamed bun, the books and records, the dinner Jan patiently allowed me to photograph, the chocolate dessert, and the noise of friends laughing at ridiculous answers on the television. I will remember that after a week of being useful, responsible, and professionally attentive, I had a day when none of those qualities needed to be demonstrated for anyone’s benefit.

The cat will still have been unnecessary, of course. I suspect I will remain completely incapable of defending the purchase according to any sensible financial model.

But if somebody insists upon asking how it fits into my ideal work-life balance, I shall explain that the pie chart was clearly missing an important category.

Miscellaneous happiness, with additional expenditure authorised for cats.

— Anj,

still attempting to balance stroke referrals, ordinary adulthood, and an increasingly suspicious collection of feline merchandise, and firmly convinced that calamari, chocolate dessert, and winning at Jackbox deserve recognition as essential components of a well-managed weekend.