Meeting the vicar without my knickers

City to Seaside

The surgical ward is a bizarre and confusing place. It’s a little bit like purgatory except, if you’re there for a gallbladder-ectomy (they literally gave me nine leaflets with the proper name on but I’m the worst), the stakes aren’t really that high. Instead of purgatory between life and death it’s purgatory between being able to eat a four-cheese pizza knowing that you might feel like you’re dying for several hours afterwards, and being able to eat a four cheese pizza knowing that the only thing that will might kill you is your terrible diet, and that probably won’t happen for at least a few more months.

Upon arrival in the surgical ward I am handed a gown and no instructions for how to wear it. The nurse draws a curtain around me and I curse myself for not asking as I debate the merits of having the gap over…

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