We walk up the stairs to the teenager who has 'fallen, swollen arm', to be greeted by a fourteen year old girl with her arm in a tubigrip.
I start with my usual opening gambit, “Hello, what seems to be the problem?”
“I fell over yesterday innit”, she says, “now my arm hurts and it's swollen innit”.
('Innit' is how a full stop is pronounced in my part of the world).
“Let's have a look then”, I say and she pulls the tubigrip off her arm, “so, how did you fall?”
“Dunno just fell over, and it hurts now innit”.
I take one look at the injury, the bruising and swelling around the hand in a rather specific place.
“So, you didn't fall over did you? What did you punch, a wall, a door or a window?”
She looked at me as if I'd grown another head.
“You can't fool me, for I have fearsome psychic powers”, I tell her, “Also it's a classic Boxer's fracture, so, wall or door?”
“Yeah, alright”, she admits, “I was having a row, right, and I punched the wall.”
“Fair enough, you'll need to go to hospital for an x-ray and treatment – and in the future don't try lying to ambulance staff, for we are wise in the ways of the world”.
I wiggled my fingers like an old-time psychic, “We. know. all.”
She looked at me with an open mouth.