How was your weekend?

I am not a brave man.

Family stories record the tears I shed whenever Andy Pandy or Robinson Crusoe ended on television. But I wasn't frightened by things that traditionally scared children my age either. I knew Dr. Who was fantasy and my childish nightmares - I later discovered - had more in common with early David Lynch films than the traditional "monsters in the cupboard" which send most children racing downstairs thirty minutes after being tucked up in bed.

No, there was only one programme that saw me in the tiny space between the wall and the sofa, refusing to watch. That was the episode of Mary, Mungo and Midge where Mary broke her arm and had to go to hospital.

Fear
Now I'm not scared of hospitals. Or doctors. Or injections. But I've never had to stay overnight in a hospital. Or undergo surgery. Or, since breaking my collarbone at the age of 18 months, have a bone reset. Obviously there are advantages to not using your bed as a trampoline and I learned that lesson early on.

Suddenly, thirty eight and a half years later, I am in an ambulance being raced to Addenbrokes Hospital with suspected appendicitis and I am feeling more than a little anxious.

Pain
There was a definite point where I realised my May Day Bank Holiday Weekend might be subject to some variability. It wasn't when the stomach cramps started - I thought that was merely some food poisoning (my sincere apologies to my 6th floor colleagues who I mentally slandered for poor hygiene because of the Chocoloate Hobnob which I mistakenly ascribed my discomfort to).

It wasn't when I was asked to move upstairs because I was keeping my partner awake through my inability to sleep.

It was probably when I collapsed on the floor of the bathroom early the following morning, awoke amid various broken household items, a doctor was called and an ambulance sent for.

In Addenbrookes Hospital there is no sofa and nowhere to hide. I have no choice but to go with the flow. Everywhere I go I answer the same questions to different people. I try to maintain my wits in an effort to avoid being subjected to a different procedure and prolonged agony. After being poked and prodded ever more intimately, I arrive in anaesthesia in late afternoon to say the same things one more time. No, I don't smoke. Yes I drink about 5-10 units a week on average. No, I don't have any alleriges. The anaesthesiologist tells me I'll be asleep within 10 seconds... and suddenly I'm waking up as I'm wheeled into Recovery, though how anyone is supposed to recover in this place which has the air of a sweatshop I have no idea. I haven't seen the inside of the theatre or even encountered the machine that goes "ping" which is slightly disappointing.

Visitors
I'm barely in the mood for visitors, but my family turn up anyway. My father attempts to give me a friendly clap on the shoulder and upends my beaker of water over the bed. Thank goodness I haven't begun filling the line of bottles next to it, I think to myself as my mother observes: "it's like being visited my M. Hulot!"

My family mistake my resignation - and the effects of anaesthetic and morphine - for bravery. My father tells me Orient beat Bristol Rovers 3-1 and furthers my incredulity with the news that Nottingham Forest have achieved automatic promotion. I should've done that away trip last season.

Parole
Two days pass in a blur. A nurse offers me a packaged sandwich which I manage to eat half of, washing it down with water. Either not eating for 24 hours has made me forget to swallow or I've been on some drug to stop me salivating. I later read that Addenbrokes food was voted 97th out of 160 similar establishments. That seems... high. I ask for all the morphine I can get. It has a strong, sweet taste and I can imagine becoming addictied to it easily.

By morning I'm ravenous but dizzy and a nurse says I have to get up. Lacking confidence, I ask for a wheelchair to visit the toilet. I improve steadily and late in the d ay I manage to shuffle slowly to the toilet under my own steam. Within 24 hours I'll be out, not because I'm recovered but because they need the bed. It'll be two weeks before I'm approaching something like normality. This leaves me with the vague feeling that I'm not so much a customer of the service as the product.

I'm still not a fan of surgery.