Since coming into hospital, I have lived the most amazingly regimented period of my adult life. Granted, that although my life as an adult will never be celebrated as a model of disciplinary rigor, held up for young players as a shining example of the way forward, there have been periods, and there are activities, in which my application has been (and is), second to none. Being here has allowed me , probably for the first time since school, to be part of a remarkabley strict routine that dominates my day, whether I’m comfortable with it or not.

Mealtimes, observations, medications, washing and staff shift changes mark the passing of the day. The room in which I currently lie gives little clue to the state of play outside. The window is fairly small and my view is of the building opposite, whose windows are much larger than my one. The walls are pinky-beige, a colour that can be nobody’s favourite, but for some reason, is used ‘in excelsius’ in recent buildings of public significance. At night time, the lights are on, and I can tell that it is not a building of wards, but the two floors I can see could be laboratories. I have never seen anyone in there, either sitting down or moving, but important things must go on in there, because the lights are on all night.

Looking out of my window in the daytime, the tinted windows make every day seem overcast, and the ones that really are overcast just seem even more overcast. I can’t see the sky from my bed, but if you get up closer to the window you can.

So life is now lived with virtually no intrusion by what I would think of being the real, physical world. I have not had any aspect of my life directly influenced by the position of the sun, but those who enact the rituals of my day are.

I can usually sleep as much as I like, but must be awake early on theatre days to wash, and let the nurses change the bed linen. If I’ve got a spare set clean, I’ll change into a pair of my highly modified underpants. Modified? Not at all easy to get a normal pair on when you’ve something the size of Sputnik attached to your left leg. How are they modified? Conceptually funnier without an explanation. Breakfast is not allowed on theatre days, and neither is lunch or dinner either, unless the an anaesthetic comes first.

I had a chat with one of my doctors about the fasting for at least six hours before an anaesthetic rule, and he told me that it was quite an old one. Before the current crop of anaesthetics, it was not unusual for the drugs and gases used to cause nausea, which could lead to vomiting, and inhalation of vomit could set up no end of problems for the proceeding operation, and potentially dire consequences for the patient afterwards. These days the hazards are much reduced, and the rule remains as much for a continuing protocol as a necessity.

Mind you though, when I was in Wollongong, the bloke in the bed next to me had suffered from an inhalation of regurgitation, and had burnt the upper reaches of his lungs with his own stomach acids (ooh, the stories I’ve heard). He’d badly gashed his foot, can’t remember which one, and needed some heavy duty repair. Just as the anaesthetist was putting the gas mask over his nose and mouth, and after the first whisps of gas had been inhaled, he suddenly felt the need to vomit, but before he could alert anyone, he passed out into a deep sleep, which was the plan, and vomitted, which was not the plan. Well, that was his story, but I believed him, and all the nurses said it was true. It kept him there for about ten days, instead of the two that the foot injury deserved.

I think I’ll close this now, I do run out of energy surprisingly suddenly. Last week I had none at all. I did write three pieces, but lost them all in a late night fog. I find that nighttime is the best time to write, it’s quiet, even in a hospital, and I feel I can really own the time.

Daytime writing is impossible, the routine of the day, the routine and noise of everyone’s day makes this such a difficult task to concentrate on. In the day , when I think about writing, the pieces are short, wittily arresting morsels of pith, but by night, if I’m actually up to writing, they turn into long winded meanders through some very dodgy sentences. Oh well, it’s fun anyway.