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.