19th May 'Holy and devout religious men... at their beads or Harry Grout

A week ago last night, I was taken into hospital to begin treatment. After 24 hours passed and it was established I was not carrying COVID, the white painted cross was expunged from my penthouse suite door, and I joined the other inmates in a cell on the haematology ward.

My room has no natural light (it is now a week since I last saw the sky). A huge rain downpipe is running down the inside of one wall (which means that when it rains it makes the room sound like a washing machine). Another wall backs onto the paediatric ward, so the background music to my day is often the cry of the Holy Innocents. To appease the aesthetic within me, I have an out-of-date poster informing me of the mealtimes and types of cutlery and bowls available to me (so I don't hurt myself when eating). 

As if my Robert Rauschenberg blank canvass and John Cage soundscape wasn't entertaining enough, I have a 15 inch television touching the ceiling which, to enjoy, one requires opera glasses and neck muscles like Mike Tyson. 

This is now 'home'.

Thankfully Sarah et al. anticipated such deprivations and understand me better than myself, and so prepared me 'a bag' (in reality three!), with everything "you need". Thus, I had a book, tablet, mobile, AeroPress (R), and Tanzania Blackburn Estate Coffee from Fortnum's.

On unpacking my veritable bag of goodies I was suddenly struck by the contents and my environment, and reminded of what I had binged watched the day before I came into hospital. 

Whilst waiting for the call—once I had successfully navigated the various warnings from the BBC about the programme's content and language, which could have been summed up as: 'made in the 1970’s'—I watched Porridge. 

Of the dramatis personae, Harry Grout came to mind. As I lay on my bed listening to Handel and drinking overpriced coffee rather than NHS Instant, it felt like I was a Cuban cigar away from the godfather of Slade Prison. 

However, the following day my fears were allayed, as I said the Daily Office listening to Psalms from King's College, Cambridge. The nurse knocked, and entered, saw me at 'my beads', and exclaimed, "Robert, why does it feel like a church in here now?" Realizing the Almighty was no match for a nurse, I put down my prayer book, and I said, "I don't know, but I am a priest." 

"A priest!" she repeated, "Why do we call you Robert, then?" 

I suggested that as doctors and nurses introduced themselves by their first name, it would be both rude and pompous to insist on a title. Clearly there is some corner of the NHS and world where the flame of Christendom flickers, and I was told in no uncertain terms, "You are Father Robert". 

Hospitals are clearly rumour-mills, for within the space of a couple of hours, I had numerous visitations from health-care professionals wishing to establish what nomenclature they should use. This situation was not helped by a pencilled note, on my notes, saying 'Rev’d Dr'. 

Over the next few days, my blushes have been spared by the occasional 'Robert', but yesterday, like the Spinal Tap amp turned up to 11, one nurse addressed me: Rev’d Dr. Father Sir Robert. 

I long for home where the names are less honorific, and invariably accompanied with a choice adjective …