Sent to Coventry

I awoke on a trolley bed in a small observation room and I was indeed being observed. The head popped back behind the door, having seemingly grown tired of eye-balling a slightly sweaty looking bloke in a blue and yellow striped jumper. I had dozed off whilst waiting to be seen by a doctor. Everyone who works in a hospital is really busy all of the time. Looking through the gap in the door was like watching a speeded up film of a hospital. I wondered if the doctors and nurses even spoke with high pitched speeded up voices? After a while, a young doctor appeared at my bedside and introduced himself with a normal speed voice. I answered the same old questions with the same old answers. The doctor seemed very confused about why I was in a hospital in Coventry when I lived in London. It’s a funny old world was what I wanted to say, but instead I explained to him the reason why I was in a hospital in Coventry when I lived in London. His curiosity satisfied he pulled on a pair of rubber gloves. Instinctively I checked his hand size. Smallish I gauged, almost girlish. I’ll make no bones about it, small girly hands or not, having his index finger prodded into my nether regions brought tears to my now ever so slightly bulging eyes. He thought there might be some scarring in my back passage and I should stay in hospital to have it checked out. They would also try out some different medications to bring my bowel movements under control. Sounded like a plan to me. An hour later I took my place in a small ward, which held six patients. As luck would have it my bed was closest to the toilet. I was put on nil by mouth, hooked up to a drip and as I rested my head on a perfectly soft pillow I felt a sense of relief that now, finally, after weeks of making no progress I was in a hospital (in Coventry by jiminy, not London) surrounded by the best possible people to make me better. As if controlled by a dimmer switch the sounds of the ward became distant and sleep overcame me.