Hospitals # 2

Some more musin's on 'ospitals. Any guesses what that thing above is? Well, after my op, through a fog of anaesthetic, painkillers, sugary tea and digestives, I asked if I could go to the toilet. The nurse promptly handed me one of these things, whipped the curtains around my bed, and told me to "buzz when I'm done".

Now, I'm afraid to say I get stagefright at the best of times, but it's a weakness I've been working on, much like a cricketer who has been ruthlessly exposed outside off-stump, and has gone back to work on his foot movement with an elite batting coach. However, no amount of work or practise in the nets could have prepared me for this. I blurted out my first concern before the nurse had a chance to leave: "How am I meant to work this?" She gave me a shrug and a half-smile as if to say, "You'll work it out, you BIG GIRL."

I can hear you laughing, but it really wasn't easy. I had no feeling in my left leg, which in any case had a dirty great tube filled with blood coming out of it. I had a drip in my left arm, and was hooked up to a computer monitoring blood pressure, oxygen in the blood, and how badly I needed a wee (possibly). The ward was full of people oblivious to my torment, chatting, coughing, groaning and generally putting me right off the task in, ahem, hand. And one nurse after another kept poking their head through the curtains, "Are you done yet?" No, I'm FLIPPIN WELL NOT DONE YET. CAN'T YOU SEE THIS IS AGONY?

It was near impossible, and took me all of two hours to get the merest dribble out into the cardboard tube-thingy, which I promptly forgot about and tipped on to my leg. I varied my methods of attack - under the covers, over the covers, left side, right side, good leg on the floor... I even tried to get my bad leg down, and immediately remembered that it was completely numb from the upper thigh down, and had thus turned into a two-tonne elephantine limb which was impossible to shift.

Every time I approached the promised land, a nurse, visitor - even Yr Chairman - would appear and leave me exasperated. I was concentrating so hard sweat was pouring down my face. The nurses were laughing at me. Something had to be done. I decided on a change of attack - ignore it.

So I picked up The Guardian sport section, read some nonsense about 'Cricket Australia' (a side issue: anyone else resent the reversal of normal English when it comes to naming sporting bodies, Cricket Australia, Team GB etc - what's wrong with 'Australian Cricket'?) objecting to Cricinfo calling Justin Langer a 'brown-nosed gnome' (Craig would've been proud of that one), and lo! It all came gushing forth. A veritable torrent. The relief was unconfined.

I buzzed for the nurse and beamed at her as I handed over my pot of warm piss. Happy days! I even asked for another tube, and was slightly concerned later that night when I had a full conversation with a nurse whilst I was weeing into my pot under the covers. An odd sensation, I can tell you. By morning time I had three warm pots to hand over, and all was well with the world once more.

The moral of the story? There's nothing like Australians taking themselves too seriously to help you (take the) piss.