Since my appearance in these pages, some people have been wondering why I am the way I am, so messed up, so ‘gonzo.’ ‘The rest of the Cherwell staff are so urbane, witty, suave and intelligent,’ they declare, ‘why do you always come across as the one cowering in the corner, dribbling and muttering to himself?’
Not initially having an answer to this question, I spent some time considering it, before, like a bolt, it hit me. Aged 13, I went to hospital.
Now, this wasn’t some cushy private hospital, This was an NHS hospital, state funded, with litter on every floor, lice in every bed and MRSA in every ward. Probably I’d fallen off a bike, and broken my leg. This necessitated an exciting ambulance ride, but once we got there things went rapidly downhill.
My bed was on a ward, with young children and Disney cartoons on the walls.
‘Don’t I get a room?’
‘No.’ ‘But what about the nine hours of undisturbed sleep that Mother told me I’d need, now rendered impossible by the screaming of innumerable children of considerabely younger age and courser manners?’
‘Shut up.’
‘Oh.’
Dinner arrived. I was looking forward to this. I liked almost all foods, from smoked salmon to ceasar salads. I could discuss the difference between Waitrose Organic houmous and the inferior M&S version, I could debone a freshly cooked whitebait, and I knew which knife and fork to use for every course in Michelin-starred restaurants.
They gave me chicken nuggets.
‘What are these suspicious-looking morsals of culinary delight?’ I enquired.
‘Chicken nuggets.’
‘Oh.’
After rejecting the chiken nuggets and wondering idly whether there was a Pret a Manger nearby, or at least somewhere that could do a decent prawn and avocado sandwich, I realised I needed the loo. This was potentially a problem, because my left leg was encased in four inches of plaster, and weighed more than my 13 year-old muscles could bear. I pressed the buzzer.
‘Could you possibly tell me where the loo is and how I get there?’ I asked the nurse, looking around for the en-suite.
‘Here, darling. she replied, producing what looked suspiciously like a milk carton with the top cut off. ‘Just pull your willy out and stick it in there,’ she instructed, with a smile on her face.
‘Oh.’
I left the hospital that evening. They said I wasn’t ready, but my parents judged that mental trauma I was suffering outweighed the risk of losing my leg. I’ve never been the same since.
