From Glyndebourne to St Thomas’s Hospital

‘Don’t you think you’re drinking too much?’ said the nurse, contemplating the array of bottles. ‘But I feel so thirsty,’ I replied. A doctor arrived and concluded that powerful intravenous antibiotics did require a lot of liquid, so that the orange juice was acceptable as well as the water.
The trouble had started at Boisdale. We were having a modest lunch, to taste some new Spanish wines while working out which sherries would accompany haggis. A Palo Cortado from Gonzalez Byass won that prize. We then moved to Ranald’s cigar terrace to reaffirm the partnership between Speyside and Havana. Only problem: I was feeling increasingly wretched and it was showing. For weeks, my leg had been growing sorer. Ranald and the girls insisted that I should go home to bed. ‘Can’t: dining in the House of Lords.’

I did, but was unable to finish the Dover sole: a sinful waste. Only hope that it ended up in a cattie-bag. Matters continued to deteriorate. By Friday, I was unable to help with setting up the picnic at Glyndebourne. My friends caught sight of my leg. Raw and red, it looked as if it had come from the spit next to Don Giovanni’s. The next day, under the strictest orders — and barely able to walk at all — I made my fateful way to St Thomas’s.

I have had little to do with health or hospitals, but when you are feeling wretched and a little worried, a great hospital is a great comfort. The staff here are committed, able, charming and spontaneously helpful. There is an all-pervasive sense of ethos. I know a number of health experts of various kinds — not all trained at Tommy’s — who insist that it is the best hospital in the country.