Stuart Barton

It was on the 14th of December that I found myself to be in the middle of what the most stupid of our fellows have vociferously and repeatedly declared to be a hoax or some kind of conspiracy theory.

But, to begin, as is best, at the beginning... On the 4th of December, I came over queer, as they say, and collapsed on the floor. A call to the 111 line and, in no time at all, an ambulance appeared at the door of Barton Towers and two cheery people - a man and a woman - wired me up to a heart monitor, whipped me onto a stretcher and into their ambulance where they asked a few questions and whirled me off to the William Harvey.

Once there, I found myself in a room crowded with small, uncomfortable beds. After half a lifetime, I mentioned to a chap lying nearby that the hospital beds were uncomfortable. He was clearly an old hand: ‘They’re trolleys, mate.’

Just at the point I began to believe that my new, cramped position was likely to become permanent, my trolley was grabbed and rushed along corridors, and up - or down - in a lift. I don’t remember which.

Eventually, I was decanted onto a proper bed and pushed into a room containing three other people and had my mask removed.

There was hardly a moment went by without one or another small woman mopping the floor and cleaning cupboards. I can honestly say I have never seen anyone work more furiously

- and without even stopping for a breather.

I understood these human whirlwinds were either from the

Philippines or Nepal.

None spoke English to any degree. Once or twice, I caught the eye of one of these ladies.

I indicated she should move away to a Covidsafe distance and drop her mask enough for me to see her face.

In every case I was greeted with a smile.

Among the nurses, one was Irish, one white English. All the rest were various shades of black or brown and spoke with a variety of accents. Without these ladies, the hospital would have been little more than an empty shed.

As time passed, I began to yearn for the smell of fresh air; the company of my dear wife, the taste of decent food and the space to take a little mild exercise.

I had just decided to discharge myself, when a doctor came and told me I had tested positive for Covid, though asymptomatic.

When he asked why I wanted to discharge myself, he gave me a form on which I wrote, simply, that I was fed up with the whole business. Within a short time, Mrs B appeared with her car to take me home.

A day later, my symptoms - shortness of breath, general weakness and a distorted sense of taste and smell appeared.

From the foregoing, I may have given an unfairly biased view of my time in hospital, with almost nothing by way of thanks for the care and expertise shown by the staff at all levels. After all, it was not their fault I was there and, to be perfectly honest, I imagine that many of them wish I hadn’t been. On a one-to-ten scale of surly patients, I would probably have been placed very near the top.

The reality is that I recognise the debt of gratitude I owe to the staff of the William Harvey so, in the event that any of them should read this piece, thank you all most sincerely.

I mentioned to a chap lying nearby that the hospital beds were a bit uncomfortable. He was clearly an old hand: ‘They’re trolleys, mate.’