I had to go into hospital for a minor operation yesterday. Nothing too serious you understand, but something which required general anaesthesia (*sigh*). I think it’s brilliant that these days most hospitals have a day surgery unit which means they ship you in first thing, gown and dope you up, do the business, bring you back to the real world and then cart you off again all within twelve hours.

I duly followed my instructions;
1) No drinking or eating after midnight prior to your operation – check
2) Don’t bring any valuables with you – check
3) Don’t bring any money with you – check
4) Arrange for someone to come and pick you up – check

I took my cheapest bag which I wouldn’t mind losing if the organised gang of thieves (which they’d like to have you believe run the roost at hospitals) nicked it. I took my cheap, back up watch and a mass market fiction, easy read paperback which was also totally unsuitable seeing that its subject matter was an evil surgeon who was performing illegal and inhumane experiments on scores of young men.

So I got to the hospital with 30p to my name after having carried only enough money to pay the cab driver, and I went to the day surgery ward. On arrival, I was asked to wear one of those excellent hospital gowns and some rather fetching anti-embolism stockings. Complete with my flip flops, I felt like a twisted geisha. I sat down to read my book, I wasn’t due to go into theatre until about 1pm.

And SHIT, I only finished my book at 10am. No money to buy any mags, or another book. But, hey, what's this? My luck might be turning, here's my saviour Patientline.

Patientline, an advance in patient care and technology. Unbelievable, a sleek looking flat screen TV, radio, telephone and internet access in ONE! No probs I thought, this would be great. I could catch some crappy day time tv, call up some mates, listen to Chelsea & Westminster Hospital FM, heeey I could even write a blog post about the hunky surgeons strutting around the place. I was getting quite excited about the whole thing. But just as I was deciding to myself what I was going to do first I realised that you needed bastarding money to run the damn thing. A minimum of £3.50. Foiled. Seems that everyone’s out to get your money. EVEN when you’re sick in hospital.

I fought the urge to start bawling like a child whose balloon had just been popped by an older kid with a sharp implement. There was nothing left for it, I threw the scant blanket over myself, turned on my side and caught some zeds instead.

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