Last week I went in to the Treatment Centre
at the Royal Hampshire County Hospital to
have some more of the painful lumps
removed. My NHS letter informed me that I
should report to the Treatment Centre
Reception Desk at 7.30am, and to make
sure that I had had nothing to eat or drink
other than clear liquids during the previous
12 hours. I had only consumed about a litre
of water since 6pm the previous evening,
and was starting to miss my morning
porridge by this time. However, I digress. No
sooner had I been ushered into the waiting
area, where three other people were already
seated, than a nurse appeared in her
fetching pink scrubs, to check us all off on
her list, before escorting us through to the
cubicles.
My cubicle only contained a chair and bedtable, whereas all five other cubicles also
contained a bed! No matter, I thought.
Perhaps someone will bring a bed in shortly.
In the meantime, another nurse appeared.
She bore a thick folder of paperwork and
informed me that she would be taking care
of me during my stay. We went through a
lengthy Q&A session together, so that she
could complete all the necessary forms and
checklists. The paperwork being all
completed and heart-rate, blood pressure
and temperature all recorded, Nurse then
supplied me with one of the highly
‘fashionable’ gowns one is required to wear
these days when undergoing surgery.
Having donned said g