Madcap inventor John Ward offers amusing tales from the hospital ward in his latest column

Madcap inventor John Ward offers some amusing tales from the hospital – a surprising source of funny observations over the years...

Recently I scribbled about missing the joys of sitting in various doctor or medical centre waiting rooms and that led to some amazing reader feedback – so I thought I’d offer more musings gained from visits to hospitals over the years.

On one occasion I was checking in at the main hospital reception for an operation but was unaware of the location of the ward (no relation) I was being billeted to.

The signs seemed to be in competition with the M25 for the amount of destination boards but, as I stood there, a hospital porter stopped and to my surprise shook my hand and said: “Oh, it’s nice to see you back with us.” He then went on his merry way pushing his trolley.

I did not have a clue as to who he was but it was comforting to know that, although three years had passed since my last appearance there, I had been ‘missed’ (although I was not sure if this was a compliment or mistaken identity as no names were mentioned).

I was there for a leg operation that went well. I was in the ‘recovery room’ waiting to be moved back to my allocated ward when somebody in hospital uniform/overall came over to me.

He asked if I was ‘who he thought I was’ (I was tempted to suggest he ask the porter with the Dean Martin haircut as he seemed to know). Had I not been connected up to tubes and wires, I might have tried to read the name on my plastic identity wristband to find out as well, if only to confirm my own suspicions.

I didn’t/couldn’t say anything coherent as I was still a bit drowsy after the op but I recall he said he thought I was as he was ‘now up close and could see’ (?) which was reassuring of sorts, if not entirely baffling as I had gone there in all innocence as a patient but had become some sort of tourist attraction in all but name.

Once back in the ward it was a sort of situation that made the ‘Carry On’ films seem like staff training videos. A nurse warned a patient: “Don’t you go wandering off on your own, George!” That was despite the minor point that he was bandaged up like an Egyptian mummy thus incapable of much movement, never mind getting out of bed unaided.

Derek in the next bed to me had so much wrong with him that he barely slept due to the pain, despite assorted dollops of medication. By about the third evening I was there, however, he dropped off to sleep as we were chatting away - I can have this effect on some people.

He had been asleep for about twenty minutes - a record for him - as a nurse appeared with the pills and potions trolley who came round to dish out allotted evening medications. I will never forget that nurse and her opening words: “Wake up, Derek, wake up! - it’s time to take your sleeping tablet!”

It started the rest of us patients into fits of laughter.

He told me that due to all the things wrong with him – that came by way of a road traffic accident – he quite expected to have a page or two in the next Guinness Book of Records.

One afternoon, a little lady ‘of a certain age’ came in to sit by Ken in the bed near the window (we all envied Ken as he could see out into the real world). She then nodded to him as she got her knitting out and started click-clacking away with the needles with wool unwinding.

She asked how things were going as he regaled her with assorted titbits about the operation etc. She duly hummed at various points as she still carried on click-clacking away doing her solo percussion on the needles.

She asked him to hold his arm out as she laid the partly knitted whatever on it, so we deduced it was a sleeve - or at worst a short leg section if you’re into knitted trousers.

Ken then spoke as she was rolling the section up: “I don’t want to appear ungrateful.” (We thought he doesn’t like the wool colour, being a grey and cream fleck, but no..) “Excuse me asking this - but who are you?”

The click-clack lady looked at him at assorted angles while adjusting her glasses, and replied: “You are Barbara’s Tony - live at number thirty-seven, next to Eileen and Frank - aren’t you?”

Ken replied with a definitive no.

She said she thought the place (ward bay) looked different from the last time she came in but, I quote: “It’s typical of these places - they tell you nothing, leave you in the dark they do but they still expect folk to come and visit the sick while in here.”

She then packed her knitting up and departed with her last words being: “I know when I’m not wanted.”