Archive
Author: Alasdair Renwick-Hale
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Roads Built for Armies Carried Ideas
I remember sitting in a cramped, dimly lit hospital corridor years ago, listening to a man describe how his family’s history had been swallowed…
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A Full Room Can Be an Empty Place
I remember sitting in the corner of a hospital bereavement lounge during a particularly crowded charity gala—the air was thick with the scent of…
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Poetry Should Not Be Read Like a Legal Code
I remember sitting in a sterile hospital room in the late nineties, holding the hand of a man who was losing his grip on…
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The First Six Minutes Decide Whether Someone Returns
I remember sitting in a sterile hospital waiting room thirty years ago, watching a well-meaning administrator attempt to “onboard” a grieving family with a…
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Pressure Changed What Was Emphasised
I remember sitting in a dim hospital room in 1994, listening to a man describe the slow, methodical dismantling of his dignity. He wasn’t…
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Small Dishonesty Is Where the Habit Forms
I remember sitting in a cramped, fluorescent-lit breakroom during my final years as a chaplain, listening to a nurse describe how she had to…
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Solitude Is Not the Same as Loneliness
I remember sitting in a small, sterile hospital room during a particularly long night shift, watching a man try to find peace through a…
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A Verse Removed From Its Paragraph Can Say Anything
I remember sitting in a cramped, sterile room in the oncology ward, holding the hand of a man who had just been told his…
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Fifteen Minutes Nobody Else Has Claimed
I spent thirty years in hospital wards, sitting by bedsides where the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the heavy, unspoken…
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Conscience Is Trained, Not Innate
I remember sitting in a sterile, fluorescent-lit room in the oncology ward, listening to a man in his sixties try to explain why he…