In any given episode of the documentary series Hospital, there is someone I call “Bed Woman”. She is responsible for assigning beds — a difficult, gnarly job. She must for ever troll the hospital’s long corridors, axe-faced, redoubtable, split ends fizzing: off to sort out other people’s stupid, low-level bollocks — eyeroll to camera — before filling in her merciless chart.
She ought to be awful on television — charmless, not interested in being popular, zero shits given about her appearance (red face; pursed lips; inevitable waterfall cardigan) — but she isn’t. She’s always brilliant, filled with personality — the life and soul of the show.
And the thousands and thousands of adoring women who watch her will just think, “There goes me.”
If
