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"I hope that Matron doesn't notice that I'm late again," fretted Nicki as she hurried down the hospital corridor, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum.

"Nicki! In my office, this minute!" barked the voice she was dreading to hear.

"What time of the day do you call this, Missie?" asked Matron Sloan, with a glare that pinned Nicki to the spot much like a lepidopterist crucifying a butterfly.

"The morning?" Nicki tried, a little optimistically.

"It is exactly 9.05 A.M.," the Matron informed her, "in the five minutes for which you are being paid, but have been absent, three patients have filled their bedpans, one has vomited, and two have died."

"Two of my patients have died?" Nicki asked, grief-stricken.

"Well, no. They weren't your patients. They were Sally's patients. But that is only a matter of luck. If any of your patients had been dying, you wouldn't have been here to stop it happening," the Matron pointed out.

"Yes, Matron," Nicki replied, looking contrite. ...

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