I WAS waiting for a blood test. Well, actually, I was waiting for another blood test. I'd already had one, followed by a sugary drink.
Now I had to sit still for two hours, and then present myself again for more blood to be drawn.
It was to do with something called "impaired glucose tolerance". Last time they checked, I was a borderline case. Come to think of it, I've always been a borderline case, one way or another.
By the way, before we go on, let me say that, give or take the occasional moan about my gout – because, apparently, that is amusing if you haven't got it – I'm not one of those people who wishes to inflict my health (should that be illness?) stories on other people.
But I have to tell you where I was when the following happened, and I don't want you to worry unduly…
Anyway, so there I was, at the Royal Derby Hospital, trying to while away those two hours between blood tests with the Derby Telegraph cryptic crossword.
Now there was the problem: to work on a crossword, I need quiet. Not the BBC's morning news bulletin over and over again, nor mobile telephones going off (I've never before noticed how so many people have Abba songs for their ring tones).
I certainly don't want conversations between strangers trying to out-boast each other's operation stories, and worse – people who do know each other, slagging off mutual acquaintances.
If that comic genius, Al Read, were still alive, he'd find plenty of material in hospital waiting rooms. The star of the 1950s wireless revolved his act around observational comedy. The other day in the Royal Derby would have proved fertile ground:
"You know that thing that Dennis had taken away? Well, it's come back – and it's his own fault… "
"Then again, Joyce, if they finally manage to cure him, he'll have nothing to moan about."
"Well, he says he's a vegetarian, Eunice, but I've only got his word for it."
How can you concentrate on eight down when you've got all this going on in your ear? I've changed the names so if you know anyone called Joyce, Dennis or Eunice, well it wasn't you they were talking about.
One thing I will say about sitting in the Royal, watching the world go by: you form a real appreciation for all those volunteers who keep the place ticking over, directing patients here, taking them there, staffing tea bars and the like.
It says much about what we often see as a selfish world that so many people want to work as hospital volunteers that such positions are oversubscribed.
Indeed, when you read the horror stories in some NHS trusts, we Derbeians must consider ourselves blessed.
Thus far, my experience when finding myself in the local health system has been nothing but a positive one. I just need somewhere quiet to do a crossword.
Don't forget Mickleover's village fete this bank holiday Monday, centred on The Square from 2pm to 6pm. Organised by the not-for-profit Our Mickleover group, it promises to be a smashing day for this lively community.
