Hospital Case

If you say "astrophysics" or "computer games" to me you will draw no more than a blank expression or maybe a stifled yawn. Likewise with medical procedures. That is only half true; I do know what a procedure is, but as for the medical part, that is a complicated case of lack of knowledge and an even deeper lack of interest. I am not even capable of watching an episode of Casualty beyond the car crash scene.

Thus it was in a state of some bewilderment that I found myself early one morning sitting in a hospital room in Albi with Sue awaiting a minor medical procedure (she would probably want to edit out the "minor" part).

We had arrived on the dot of 8 o'clock, as requested by the consultant - no minor feat in itself, never having coaxed Sue out of bed at 6.30am in a non-going-on-holiday situation before. We carried out the registration process with the gang of secretaries who process all incoming patients. They are all dressed in white lab-coats, in case you should be in any doubt as to what kind of establishment you are in. They never touch any test tubes or anything, but the coats help them to feel as if they look the part. Sue was then given an A4 sheet of sticky bar-coded labels that could be used to make identity bracelets, decorate samples, or scannable origami cats.

We were feeling fortunate that she had been given such an early appointment, which left the rest of the day free for other activities. By 8.30 we were installed in a room, Sue dressed in a fetching button-up-the-back floral print gown and me in a slightly less than comfortable chair with a book. We waited. Sue passed from anxiety to boredom and back again, while I passed through Southern Africa with Paul Theroux.

I must admit to having somewhat similar feelings about hospitals as I do for churches. I don't really like them, and I don't much like what happens inside them. I have on occasion had to visit a church to attend the odd wedding and the only thing to maintain my sanity has been the ability to count the pieces of parquet or admire the architectural stonework. This was a modern hospital, and steel shutters and formica have a limited amount of appeal to the aesthetically-minded building enthusiast, although there was quite an impressive First World War memorial to be seen from the corridor window.

So we waited. If they were offering boredom as a tonic there would be no more sick people in that hospital. A full four hours after arriving Sue went down to the theatre, while I was sent to stand in the corridor to admire the memorial and read my book for another hour, before being rejoined by my best beloved for another hour of waiting for the discharge papers to be processed.

It turns out that we didn't have an early appointment. They just call everybody in at 8 o'clock and process them all in one go, so the secretaries can spend the rest of the morning resting. That way they don't have to organise complicated scheduling and appointment times because everybody is there and waiting.

Who would want complications?