I was in the hospital and in a bed. After a day in the outpatients clinic having fluids of different sorts taken from me and a 'tap' inserted ( they call it a cannula) It's so they can fill you with a anti biopics or other stuff on tap.
I had a room to myself, from the seemingly crowded and chaotic A & E with all its wounded people, here I was in my own en suite room with a nurse popping in and making sure I was ok. I'd expected a ward with others. The steroids were still working and I felt like a bit of a fraud. These wards are for seriously ill people and one night there was all I was going to get. Some serious screaming and consternation during that night from another room gave the hint. I was sort of thankful to be moved out at midnight the next day.
Porters came and wheeled me and my wash bag through what seemed to be miles of corridor, some feeling subterranean, and then past darkened wards with nurses stationed at computer consoles glowing the only light in the corridor. Some smiled at me as I wafted past them. I came to rest in Guiting Ward, parked next to the window overlooking the Hospital car park. Room with a view.
Made to feel welcome by yet another nurse or health care assistant, I was still eeking out the effects of the first day steroids to help. I knew that this would not last but made the best of it. When I was young you could get books for boys interested in plane spotting, you probably still can. Each plane drawing would have a 'uniform' livery of some sort. So you could say that that plane is a Messerschmitt 109 with desert markings, and was around in 1941 in the Torbruk campaign. So it is with NHS uniforms, but there's no book as far as I know. Different uniform signals different type of position. Dark navy are nursing sisters and so on. Doctors generally spotted by their stethescope only. Consultants: the top of the Doc tree don't wear uniform at all and are not referred to as Doctor, but Mr or Mrs or Ma'am. Am I the only person to think this is a bit strange?
As I was getting ready to try and sleep a hunched figure was slowly walking up and down the ward on his frame in the semi darkness of the ward, like a ghostly "Captain Tom" of covid fame. It was the 93 year old from the other corner who seemed only to get relief from his painful legs by walking.
I woke the next day with my fellow 5 inmates, and so the people watching began.
An early healing custard pud.
So also started the start of healing custard. Don't you just love that word: custard. I challenge you to shout it out at a serious political meeting and check out the positive vibe. People will nod and smile and agree that " What this country needs is custard". The NHS in its genius has seen the value of this fine stuff and it's my contention that it is key to recovery. Say it loud, say it proud : CUSTARD!
Note here from this image that the chef producing this plateful understood completely exactly how to display the yellow stuff at its best, the wave of apple, the beach of crumble and the dunes of custard. Beautiful to behold.
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