Sisters

Imagine the scene.

We're just a few years into the future and the Nepean Institute is leading Penrith's cultural elite into a new, majestic opera theatre in Regatta Park.

There is a capacity crowd for the opening night and, as Pavarotti fans himself with a handkerchief during his inimitable rendition of Nessun Dorma a man in the front row collapses.

A bejewelled matron leaps to her feet and cries, in melodramatic tones, "Is there a doctor in the house?"

At once a business-like young woman emerges from a concealed doorway and with calm, reassuring strides reaches the man. She restores him to consciousness before spiriting him away to her rooms for further checks and a lecture on the dangers of overeating.

Recovered, the man is grateful. "Thank you, Doctor," he says.

The young woman immediately corrects him. "I'm not a doctor, Sir. My name is Pauline Primrose and I'm a nurse."

Pauline then goes on to explain that all entertainment centres will in future be required by law to have a trained nursing sister on hand to cope with emergencies.

Then she smiles and says, "They call us theatre sisters."

My photograph, as unflattering as it was, appeared beside these articles every week. That ensured that during the couple of years they were published it was rare for me to visit Penrith without somebody asking me about the column.

The yarn above was written for Pauline Lomax from the Governor Philip Hospital. She wanted a story about nurses.