Churchillian Victory

For some years now I've been trying to get hold of a matching six-volume hardback set of Winston Churchill's 'The Second World War'; the only specimen of this genre of writing, to my knowledge, since Julius Caesar's Latin commentaries in the first century BC. My local second hand bookshops, and others, not infrequently have sets which are not quite matching: volume V, for some reason, always seems to be the odd one out. Anyway, I've been reluctant to shell out £60-70 on a non-matching set. Imagine my excitement, therefore, as I marched up the stairs in the Oxfam Bookshop in Durham last week and found a complete, matching set apparently being used for decorative purposes in an alcove. I checked inside volume I for a price: nothing. I tried in volume VI, with a similar result. I continued to the first floor and the Classics section, where everything was hideously over-priced. Things were not boding well for the Churchill set.

On returning downstairs I made enquiries. 'The price will be in the first volume,' said the assistant. He accompanied me to the books, but nothing was there of course; nor was the price in the sixth. I was hoping I might get away with the six volumes for £60. Dating from around the 1950s, they were in superb condition. He plucked a figure out of the air. £40. 'Done,' I promptly replied.

When I got back to our rented holiday cottage, more surprises were in store. This was no ordinary set, but one owned by the former Vice-Chancellor of Durham University, Sir James Duff. Inside two volumes were press cuttings of his reviews for the Newcastle Journal and North Mail, and letters accompanying the review copies sent to him by the publisher, Cassell. Volume I was, according to the beautifully calligraphed inscription on the flyleaf, presented to him on the occasion of his attending Speech Day at Tynemouth High School on 14th February 1950. And on the flyleaf of volume 2 was an Oxfam price-tag: £59.99.

Bay Watch 11

Bulletin 11: Monday 3rd May 2010

Fantastic – cable free, I am able to visit the shower room to wash and shave, though it's too painful and tiring to take a shower yet. A departure tomorrow is looking likely.

Visiting time starts at 2.15pm. Nightmare. Why can't the great British public read and comply with the straightforward requests: two adults and no young ones? Ted at one stage had four adults and a two year-old crawling around (the two year-old was doing the crawling, not the adults, who were cooing with the child-worship all too prevalent these days.); he looked totally knackered once they had all departed. Perhaps they all want rid of him. Walking patients hoping to by-pass the chaos and escape to haven of the Day Room are foiled: it's full of kids running riot - kids who've been dumped there by their parents and told to be quiet. The Bass bed was the only compliant one during the whole of my stay. My favourite nurse, Sylvia, tells me that this is the norm, and that it's not been unknown for visitors even to change a baby's nappy on a patient's bed.

I am visited by Tracey, of the Wound Surveillance Team (I kid you not). She surveys my wounds, pronounces all well, and moves on. Another box ticked in my 'Clinical Pathway' documentation, which is not unlike a scheme of work, mapping out what has to be done when.

Tuesday 4th May
Actually showered and shaved myself this morning. Slow and tiring but a great sense of achievement when done. My last set of x-rays and blood tests have come back OK. The lovely Namita from Physiotherapy takes me on a gentle walk and explains what I have to do over the weeks ahead. She shows me how to walk up and down stairs, which I find I am able to cope with quite well.

After lunch I'm given a briefing by Sylvia, some paperwork and a month's supply of drugs. I'm wheeled out about 4.00pm and en route thank George for his cabaret during the course of my stay. We manage to drop in on Keith, who's got Heather with him. He's delighted that I'm out before him, but is bitterly disappointed still to be in. I hope we'll keep in touch.

What a very educational experience it's all been. The highlight of it all was the amazing staff and teamwork, from my consultant down through the lovely nurses to the John Barnes-lookalike cleaner who cleaned through the Bay several times daily. Many of them had been on the staff for more than five years, and some more than twenty, citing the usual reason: it's a nice place to work. I take my hat off to them all, but at the same time will be very happy not to have to see the inside of a hospital ever again.

Bay Watch 10

Bulletin 10: Saturday 1st May 2010

It is 7.40am, and all is calm. A nurse is doing something with my left arm, and I am about to witness something straight out of 'Casualty'.

A nurse, who has obviously been monitoring a bank of screens just down the corridor, rushes in, points at the monitor above George's bed, and screams 'George!' Audio alarms start sounding, and I swear that within ten seconds ten nurses and one doctor have appeared out of the woodwork. Curtains are hurriedly drawn, and I can see tears in two of the nurses' eyes. A green-uniformed doctor takes command and barks orders, and another doctor arrives with a defibrillator. Five seconds later a robotic American accent commands 'please stand clear of the apparatus'. The doctor simply says, 'stand clear.' A few seconds' pause. 'He's back,' says the doctor. Sighs of relief all round, and the nurses disperse, less than 50 seconds after the drama started, leaving the doctor to spend a good ten minutes filling in the appropriate paperwork. As George receives treatment during the rest of the day each nurse says, 'You gave us a bit of a fright this morning, George. You won't do it again, will you?' George replies like a naughty schoolboy, 'I'll try not to. I didn't mean to.' I reflect on the great sense of reassurance I'm experiencing after watching this amazingly brief scene of professionalism, teamwork and discipline. George is to have a defibrillator implanted into his left shoulder on Friday.

Being wired up is cramping my style. This is the first time I've experienced a catheter. I can imagine that it is a useful device, especially if you're out on a pub crawl, since you have absolutely no sensation of passing fluid.

John's amoebic intellectual level was confirmed today. When George asked us – bless him – whether he had disgraced himself during the night, John replied, 'No problem, mate. We just got worried every half hour or so when you kept shouting 'It's your turn on top again.'' Peasant.

Management brings me some sobering news from those who operated on me. They've now had a chance to look at the three arteries they've by-passed. I've been walking on a time-bomb for the last decade. One artery was 50% blocked, and the other two were 95% blocked. Lots of 'what ifs..' spring to mind. I hope the world is prepared for me when the effects of the operation wear off and my motor's fuel-injection system improves from 5% to something much closer to 100%. My God, I'll be running weekly marathons if I'm not careful.

Sunday 2nd May
I've now been taken off monitoring and my catheter has been removed. Freedom at last. Another patient arrives to fill the fifth bed on the other side of George. An old peasant who looks like a weasel and deserves the company of Ted and John. My guess is that he is a pimp. He looks decidedly shifty; I wouldn't trust him any farther than I can throw David Howard.

Bay Watch 9

Bulletin 9: Friday 30th April 2010

It's 07.30am, and I have woken up in the Critical Care area after being blissfully unaware of anything for more than 19 hours. I wonder if I'll ever get to see and thank Sheila, the nurse who tended me alone over that period? Management and Food Police tell me that she was lovely and that they managed a good chinwag. I'm dosed up with painkillers, but even swallowing my own saliva is painful, and when I'm transferred to a wheelchair I feel like I've been kicked in the leg and chest by a donkey. Out I am wheeled to pastures new.

Bay G on Mallard Ward is a five-bedded room, with only four occupants at present. Things are looking up immediately: I notice with glee that the absence of any TV makes this a TFZ (Titchmarsh-free zone). I resemble a walking advertisement for the plugs, sockets, leads and adaptors section of Currys Digital. I have an Offa's Dyke running from my neck to my navel, and a minor Rift Valley from my left heel to my left groin – that's where they lifted the replacement artery grafts from. I feel great relief not so much at the success of the operation, but that it has actually been performed at last.

I'm at least 12 years younger than the other three inmates: I make a mental note of the dates of birth they have to confirm each time they are given drugs. They all have other things wrong with them already, so their bodies have to cope with those as well as the additional cardiac problems. I can see why I'm referred to as 'young.' A nurse tells me that the average age of a Papworth patient is 80.

George on my left is a nice old toff. In his 80s, he speaks weakly but articulately in a plummy accent and enjoys great banter with the nurses, who are clearly fond of him. He's just bought a farm house in Stamford but hasn't been able to enjoy it following his recent heart problems. He must be ex-forces. Opposite George (in all senses) is Ted, a bald over-weight ex-bricklayer from King's Lynn who thoroughly enjoys ill-health. There is lots wrong with him – he takes more than 25 sorts of pills per day. His stockpile of drugs is such that the bedside drugs cabinet isn't big enough to cope, and he has a special system stored at the Nurses Station. When the nurse at every drugs round looks in puzzlement at his empty cabinet he takes great delight in informing them about this special arrangement. I suggest that a post-it note on the cabinet door would save me and others from suicide. This policy is adopted, but to vain effect: it doesn't shut Ted up.

To Ted's right is an oik named John. His plebeian accent locates him to within a hundred yards of the terminal building at Luton Airport. He has an enviable view over the lake, its flora and fauna. It's touching to listen in on learned naturalists' conversation:

John: Christ, there are lots of birds down there, ain't there?
Ted: Yeah, there are one or two Canada geese, I think.
John: They're the ones that shit all over the place, ain't they?
Ted: Yeah. Nature's a bastard.

Because I'm fresh from Critical Care I am given a wash in bed by two lovely nurses, one of whom shaves my face better than I do, according to Management.

Bay Watch 8

Bulletin 8: Wednesday 28th April 2010

I must apologise for the slight hiatus in the appearance of this final batch of Bay Watch bulletins. One of the side-effects of my procedure is impaired vision, so I've been unable to do as much on-screen work or reading as I should have liked, which has been very frustrating.

Things are looking good. On check-in we spot that my name appears on the whiteboard at the Nurses* Station, so at least I'm expected. We are then escorted to the cosy two-bedded Room 2 of Higginson Ward, one bed of which is conveniently available. The other inmate is a very pleasant and cheerful chap of about my age, named Keith. My amazing powers of deduction lead me to the conclusion that he is in because of a spot of leg trouble: his left leg is artificial from mid-thigh downwards. You can't fool me.

There's more to it that that, we learn. His life has been well and truly buggered up over the past two years after a mis-diagnosis. He reported a lump behind his left knee and was told that this was something called a Baker's cyst. He was asked to come back in nine months' time if he was still in pain. He did, to be told that the growth was cancerous and that it should have been treated months ago. His leg was amputated, but by then cancers had spread to his lungs and the rest of his body. He had lost his job – a porter at a Cambridge college – and the accommodation which went with it. He was having some lung treatment and was hoping to be out the next day. There's always someone worse off, isn't there? We met his lovely wife Heather during evening visiting time: she and Management had a great time chin-wagging and we're hoping to stay in touch over the months to come, since they occasionally take their grandchildren on day trips from Cambridge to Felixstowe.

There is a modestly-sized flat-screen TV on the wall. The volume is on low, and snooker is being shown. Very calming, and Titchmarsh-free.

Thursday 29th April
In the words of Ben Hur, 'Today is the day.' Management and Food Police have special dispensation to come in early to say good luck before I'm carted off at about 9.30am. I remember confirming my signature on a consent form, and being in a holding area outside a suite of operating theatres, with other punters all no doubt waiting to be wheeled in for their 10.00am procedures. I overhear some gossip among annoyed staff about a patient witholding their consent at this late stage for the second occasion. I don't even remember making it in to theatre. That's all I remember about 29th April.



*I'm henceforth following the NHS convention of ignoring the correct usage of the apostrophe. This also applies, for example, to 'childrens wards' and 'patients privacy.'

Bay Watch 7

Bulletin 7: Friday 12th March 2010

So, the big day dawns. I'm given some pills and water at 5.45am, but am not allowed breakfast of course. From my bedside telephone, using a swipe card costing £3.00, I contact Management and ask for my spectacles case to be brought in. I'll need my glasses to confirm my signature on the consent form as I'm being wheeled in, before they get thrown into a bag of personal possessions which will accompany me back to wherever I end up post-op. I swipe my card again to get a balance, and manage to work out that the 'from 10p' publicity doesn't include the small print which should say that calls out to mobiles appear to cost 50p a minute.The chap in the next bed, just back from surgery, has been desperate since yesterday for his bag of possessions to be returned to him: he wants to read and is going slowly mad, especially since Essex man asks for the TV to be put on at 7.50am.

More reading, then the lovely Indian nurse Suja takes me away and shaves my chest, arms, legs, and other more intimate areas so as to minimise pain when plasters eventually have to be torn off. I'm given a plastic bottle of pink disinfectant and told to shower and then dress in a gown which has ties at the back. It takes a certain amount of manual dexterity to do this in such a way as not to inflict visual pollution on anyone following behind me, but I manage eventually. I return to my bed and await a final visit by Management and Food Police. They arrive at 11.00am and we are sent to the Day Room by Suja, who says she will come to collect me when it's time for my pre-op jab in the backside.

The Day Room has a TV, but mercifully it's not on. Instead we have to endure a family looking at and discussing their holiday snaps on a digital camera. 'Lovely hotel room. We got an upgrade you know…' Noon comes and goes. So does 1.00pm. There must be complications with the previous patient. At 1.40pm Suja enters, accompanied by a doe-eyed lady doctor. This is it, we thought, but the doctor says 'You won't be glad to see me.' She's right. There's not enough post-op beds in Critical Care, so we have to go home and wait for the Booking Office to make contact again. It's no good shooting the messengers; they were clearly embarrassed at having to break the news to us. Some remote Bed Manager sitting in an office somewhere is the one to blame.

So it's back to the ward to pack my belongings and leave. Luckily Essex man had nothing to say, or he would have received a verbal barrage of choice Anglo-Saxon in reply. Back at the local accommodation, Management and Food Police have to re-pack their cars and we return to the Council Houses in record time. To keep spirits up Food Police agrees to relent for one evening, so we adjourn to Nando's. Management is more adventurous than usual and experiments with some spicy sauces. I go in for some chicken wraps, my first chips for months, and two bottles of Superbock Portuguese beer. Next morning, despite this unaccustomed intake, the scales say that I have lost a further two pounds, so every cloud…..

Bay Watch 6

Bulletin 6: Thursday 11th March 2010

Bay 6 of the Higginson Ward at Papworth Hospital is not dissimilar in atmosphere to the Black Hole of Calcutta. It is long and rectangular, the entrance being halfway along one of the longer sides. Six beds are crammed in. Luckily my bed is in the left-hand corner adjacent to the fire escape, which means that my territorial demarcation lines, as established by the curtains on their runners, afford me a greater than average square-footage. I am one of four beds along the longer wall; the other two beds, one at each end, are at right angles to the others.

It's funny how you can take an instant dislike to some people. At the far end of the Bay sits a character I've come to refer to as 'Essex boy.' He spends most of his time sitting in his bedside chair, staring down the length of the Bay, clocking whatever's going on and making loud comments on it to no-one in particular. He's silver-haired, aged about 70, has patterned tattoos down the outside of either arm, and speaks in a plebeian mock-Cockney accent, with which he addresses his male interlocutors as mate and his female ones as darlin'. He is, without doubt, an oik. Luckily I've managed to avoid any sort of interchange with him.

On the wall just inside the entrance on the left, installed earlier today apparently, is a new flat-screen TV, which attracts the oohs and aahs of cleaners, caterers and nurses as they pass by. This leads to a classic case of what a former colleague has referred to (apologies to the sensitive) as DAS – Dog's Arse Syndrome. DAS takes its name from a dog's ability to lick its own backside, and in essence means that simply because one has the facility to do something, actually doing it is not necessarily pleasant, desirable or obligatory. In the current context this means that because a TV is available, it has to be switched on permanently. This interferes with my enjoyment of some light reading – a P. D. James Inspector Dalgliesh novel – but, far more seriously, exposes me to "The Alan Titchmarsh Show". I can't stand Alan Effing Titchmarsh. But there's worse to come. Someone up there has got it in for me: an extended item on the local news is concerned with Alan Effing Titchmarsh, referred to by the moronic presenter as 'multi-talented', officially opening some garden shed near Chelmsford, lecturing – giant scissors in hand – to a crowd of about ten adoring middle-aged housewives how gardening will solve the country's law and order, health and education problems. Prat.

Dinner consists of a plain omelette and water, the water being removed at 6.00pm, after which I'm allowed nothing until after I awake from the operation tomorrow. Management and the Food Police, who have booked accommodation in the next village, depart, having confirmed with the Ward Sister that they will be phoned as soon as I am wheeled out of theatre into Critical Care, and having made a special arrangement to visit me tomorrow morning (outside official visiting hours), prior to my op at high noon.

Television is finally turned off at 10.40pm. Bliss.