My hands were sticky and smelt like a bar-top counter, which reminded me of the loud music banging at my ears and the numerous hi-bye greetings in a club. The club isn't a very nice place to be. And so is the hospital.

The entrance slide open, and a depressed grey sky greeted me with a cold slap of wind. I took a deep breathe in, and suddenly was whisked in a puff of cigarette smoke. The smell of irony.