13 | December | 2014 | Words on the Street

As I imagine is quite normal behaviour for a 19-year-old, my son lost his passport (he was going to Turkey at the end of the month during which it disappeared) and, in the search for it, his bedroom was given a much-deserved turning-over. One of the things he found was a pair of his dear departed Grandad’s glasses (a souvenir from a previous visit)!

Anyway, after much swearing and grunting, all hopes of retrieving it were abandoned. After he had gone out one day, he telephoned me, saying he thought it might be in the glove-box of his old car, which had died and was rotting in our drive in pre-scrap mode. So, I duly opened the car and, in the course of the several minutes of ferreting about in the front, back and boot, I found the following: 90p in small denomination coins, nothing higher than a 20p, several pieces of what appear to be homework from the school he had left the previous year, one of that school’s text-books, my golf clubs (I thought they were in the garage), a sleeping bag, a Nintendo game that he had been trying to find for some months (it was in the sleeping bag), assorted small objects which I decided I didn’t want to touch, and no passport. I kept the 90p.

We (meaning I, of course) duly lodged a formal lost passport report via the Passport Office website. Needless to say, the passport turned up a couple of days later; the application for renewal could therefore be made. Except we couldn’t find the form which had been received a few days earlier and so had to order another, which we (I, again) did via the Passport Office website. Having received and completed that one, it was despatched with the existing passport. As you may have guessed by now, the previously received application form was found (behind a pile of junk on the landing); I tore it up. Two phone calls from Evening Team 6 at the Passport Office, two letters to Evening Team 6 explaining (1) that the lost passport had been found and (2) that the passport had been lost in the house and that it had not been out of my son’s possession (and a week or so) later, a new passport arrived.

MI6 have probably got a file on me now.

So there I was on Thursday 11th December a few years ago, finally, in hospital, full of apprehension because it would be the first time I would ever be confined in one overnight; it wasn’t so much the fear of undergoing surgery, more the indignities I could potentially suffer. I mean, your private functions go out the window, don’t they? No, you know what I mean, I had my own side room with a shower and toilet – anyway, the window didn’t open wide enough.

I had received a letter instructing me to make my way to a certain ward at four o’clock but we were a little early, having arrived just after half-past three. We were shown into one of the ward bays (which are a pretty good size, more or less circular and contain four beds and a small seating area with a view of rolling countryside and Car Park 8). At a quarter to five, I was shown to my room by a very pleasant, rather portly Jamaican nurse (in case you were wondering, I mention her ethnicity because I would like you to imagine the way she moved, as if a hidden calypso was dictating her gait) who said “Could you walk this way?” I restrained myself; oh, all right, I didn’t. “I wish I could,” I said, “but I’m hoping to be able to soon.” She had the good grace to chuckle.

The last thing I expected was a room to myself with an en suite shower and toilet and a considerable amount of the aforementioned apprehension swiftly dissipated. We explored the room and I unpacked my nightie etc. Nobody had yet appeared to tell me what to expect but Sheila had to get home so she left at about a quarter past five and I was left twiddling my thumbs (as far as I was physically able to), wondering what I should or shouldn’t be doing. I fiddled with the overpriced telephone and TV (the radio service was free), read a bit of my book and pondered over the Telegraph crosswords; I finished those at about twenty past seven and, shortly after this – hurrah! – a nurse came in and took my blood pressure and temperature. I thought it would be nice to know the forthcoming routine so I interrupted her conveyor belt and asked if that was all that was going to happen for the rest of the night. “Yes,” she answered. Lie.

I got into bed quite early, read a bit more and fell asleep unusually early for me, at about ten, but was awoken at midnight by the aforementioned nurse – the mendacious little minx – who visited again to do my “obs” (you do slip into the jargon quite quickly – “obs”, “meds”, “bedpan” etc.

There was no further interruption until twenty to four when the nurse came in to take my jug of water away (you are allowed fluids only up to two hours before surgery but I had been told earlier that I would be able to have a couple of sips to take my normal blood pressure medication). She obviously didn’t trust me and said, “I have to do this because you’re going to theatre in the morning.” This was the first I’d heard of it; it made good sense, though, as I was already there but nobody had confirmed when I was going until then. “I can have a little with my medication, though, can’t I?” “Oh, no.” “Oh, right.”

A little later (about half-past six), while I was having a wash and the nurse was changing the bedding, another nurse shouted through the door that I could have a couple of small sips of water in order to take my medication. I began to feel like those passengers at Terminal 5 on opening day, except I don’t suppose any of them had numb legs.