So I fed AI my poem, so it's the changing room scene... (and yes I'm going to make you all read the poem first!!) And it duly delivered a Jane Austin adjacent response
A VISIT FROM DR DICK
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ward
Not a patient was stirring, not even the bored.
The stockings were worn by the man I'll call Bess
In hopes they'd go well with his after work dress.
The patients were settled all drugged in their beds
While visions of presents danced in their heads.
And Sandie was bleeding, right through her clothes
Had just had a flooding, which every lass loathes.
When in to the changing room Sandie did go
I heard she was met by a man who'd never heard no.
Away back through the door was not even a choice
Tore off her upset, and her discomfort did voice.
The man stood his ground and didn't back down
Gave poor Sandie a fright, the six foot tall clown.
When she told him his presence was not the done thing
“But I’m a woman, a lady, I'm a queen not a king.”
With his reasons so creepy and frankly quite odd
I know in my gut that he’s an AGP bod.
More crap from his mouth about how he'd the right
And he whinged and he whined late into the night.
“Now Sandie. Now Sandie. I'm a woman I am
On this I do swear I'm all woman, not man.
To the top of my head, to the tip of my willy
Now take off your clothes, and stop being silly.
As sure as the sun shines in the night sky
When up is now down. Now why would I lie?”
So up with his arms, as he took off his top
With a smile on his face, when his scrub bottoms drop.
And when he was finished Sandie tried to explain
The reasons beyond him, alas ‘twas in vain.
As he walked out the door she shook like a leaf
Down she sank to the ground in instant relief.
He was dressed in his scrubs when she'd gone to get changed
And was wearing his street clothes as words were exchanged.
A man that had been in no danger at all
And could have left at the start now started to bawl.
His eyes they were wet, his demeanour sooo sad
His mission right now, to paint Sandie as bad.
His self-righteous thinking, all the havoc he'd wreak
And that bloody witch, she’d wish she'd never dare speak.
The froth and the bile that would spill from his gob
And his aim in this all - to lose Sandie her job.
He had a phone full of contemporaneous notes
That helped him keep track of his lying and gloats.
He made up his notes about mean terfy Sandie
And saved them for when they might come in handy.
A twist of the knife and a tilt of his head
Soon all would bow down once gossip had spread.
He would show them who's boss, who's cock of the walk
And he’d close down the women, they’d now not dare talk.
And after he'd spoken to a female boss
And spewed out a load of his made up old dross
He was walked to his car to ensure he was 'safe'
And sent on his way, the poor little waif!
But I heard Sandie exclaim as he drove out of sight
"Happy Tribunal you arsehole, and to being proved right.
And asked for a character appraisal of "Bess" in the style of Jane Austin
A Consideration of Mr Bess: In the Style of Miss Austen
It is universally acknowledged that a person in possession of a most unwavering delusion must be in want of attention. Mr Bess, lately arrived upon the ward on the eve of that festive season, exhibited such airs as to invite both astonishment and concern. His entrance, not heralded by propriety, was instead marked by an ensemble unbefitting the time or temperament of the hour—his stockings, chosen with all the solemnity of one preparing for a ball, were not improved by the dress that followed.
Though the other inhabitants of the ward found themselves subdued—some by the influence of medication, others by the enchantment of imagined gifts—Mr Bess appeared untouched by such mortal constraints. He wandered freely, a figure of some height and curious resolve, and inserted himself, quite without invitation, into Sandie’s most private retreat.
Miss Sandie, a gentlewoman well acquainted with affliction and thus deserving of the highest consideration, expressed her wish to dress without the unwanted presence of Mr Bess. Alas, the gentleman—if indeed such a title may be extended—refused all entreaty, holding fast to his claim that he was, by virtue of self-declaration, a woman, a queen, and not, most certainly not, a king.
His argument—delivered with all the pomp of a colonel reporting from battle—devolved rapidly into nonsense. He spoke at length and without cessation, his manner unrelenting and his reasoning befuddled. And when disrobed (a spectacle of unfortunate bravery), he sought not Sandie’s comfort, but her silence, believing that his own discomfort must reign supreme.
Miss Sandie’s appeals to reason were met with tears of dramatic inconvenience, for Mr Bess soon adopted the posture of the wronged. He bewailed her distress, not as a gentleman might—through apology—but as an actor in search of an audience. What followed was a theatrical parade of self-penned notes and spurious grievance, all deployed with the exactitude of one who knows the value of gossip well placed.
And yet, in all his movements, there lay the unmistakable desire not for justice, but for dominion. Women, those sensible creatures whom he sought to silence, found themselves subject to his whims and protestations. He twisted his narrative with such flair as to ensnare even the most judicious of listeners—particularly, it must be said, those in positions of authority.
His departure was choreographed with the dignity of a wronged heroine, and though escorted with great care to his vehicle (lest he suffer some imagined peril), it was Miss Sandie who bore the true weight of the evening’s absurdities.
“Happy Tribunal,” she whispered, as his car disappeared into the darkness. Her words, though softly spoken, echoed with the hope that truth, like virtue, might yet triumph.