It was 19th April 2004, and it was a Monday. Having risen at sparrow-fart, I was ferried to Orpington Hospital, where I continued to starve till 2pm. (They'd changed my operation time after trying unsuccessfully to change the day. I fight dirty.)
I was barely turned 51, and here I was having a new hip fitted. My surgeon, Mr Walczak (he had the goodness to have a couple of vowels in his name...) preferred ceramic joints over tungsten ones.
I must say, I concur - fall over with a massive spike drilled down into your femur and you're looking at a completely shattered thigh. The ceramic version is embedded using glue, so I can take as many tumbles as I like and still retain a thigh bone.
Sadly, I have waited in vain for the other hip to go, so that I could have my leg length discrepancy addressed. If it does, I hope Mr Walczak is still available. His patients were the only ones to get visits daily - morning and evening - from their surgeon, and his bedside manner was charming. He built up quite a fan club. This picture doesn't do him justice. OK, he's no Vincent D'Onofrio, but he was exactly what you'd want for a doctor at a time like that.
Just so you know across the Pond, in Britain, doctors don't necessarily have PhDs, they are more likely to be BMeds, and Doctor is a courtesy title. But the top doctors (Consultants) are no longer addressed as Doctor, but as Mr. So don't worry if you end up in a British hospital and find you are treated by a Mr - you actually have one of the best.
My local hospital had a consultant who murdered his wife. He pushed her out of an upstairs window because she had cooled to him and wouldn't give him a kiss.
He got 6 years. That's how it works for men who kill "unreasonable" wives. Wives who kill abusive husbands get life. (Life over here is 10 years upwards.)
Wow, that post got off track, didn't it?