The dark cool corridor stretched out in front of us as we filed along. Nervous hands stuck deep in pockets warm, excited hands reaching out felt unfamiliar walls, forced hands listlessly hung. One hundred and fifty of us, strangers scuffled on, into the depths of the Anatomy Department, the year was 2007. We smelt them first, scrunching our noses hurriedly, tears stinging the corners of our eyes, as the dead, the preserved dead announced themselves. Sniffing we entered the Dissection Hall, eleven bodies lay bare, stripped on cold metal tables beckoning. Formalin hung in the air, stifling us as we explored our morbid settings.
“Good Morning…”, the voice exclaimed with finality silencing our sniggers and whispers.