Royal

 

Hospital in May

Sunday. After two weeks, dear Diary, we experience unusual moments when we believe this is how monarchs pass the time. Persons arrive at the bedside, say what they have to say, then retreat again into the labyrinth of the institution. Then more of them. Doctors, for example, and we are sure you have experienced this at some time (journals being timeless much of the time), land post-haste at our right hand to deliver news from the interior. Revolts of the system, or against the system, revolts anyway are now under control, though it was a close thing and good they got onto it straight away. Surgeons are cool subjects to have around and we thank them for this blessed extension to our earthly mortality. We are left feeling very important as they dash off in their flowing gowns. Very important indeed. Monday. Nurses are helpful with all the science, science being the object of our continuous gratitude, and the nurses. We find however that nurses are good practice for our schooling in advanced diplomacy. We find that five nurses means five opinions, not always consistent, indeed of variable verity. Monarchs must be grateful for all expert advice while apprising the situation, but a measure of common sense is necessary in any reading of flat contradictions. We thank them one and all, but keep our own counsel. Tuesday. Transfer from hospital to rehabilitation today. Pleased to note the task being allocated to Royal Flying Doctors. We are elevated into the vehicle and fixed into place, from which elevation we may wave modestly to everyone as we travel the high road to our preordained destination. Not everyone returns the wave, yet our spirit is free, released with a new inner life. Wednesday. Courtiers come and go with practical flurry. Doctors again, a mine of figures, the figures all mine. Menu Lady, copying our requests in precise detail into her food map. Cleaners, pleasantries exchanged. Nurses, more needles and medications and figure-finding and opinions, to which we nod in agreement. Physiotherapists, we don’t have enough. Occupational therapists, tell us to limit our engagements. Thursday. Family visits. These people are outstandingly excellent. They speak our language. They fill the room with humour, nor do they depart after five minutes. Finest raiment is bestowed, carefully chosen for our very needs and taste. They observe our mood, tell us to stay on our throne, don’t stress and other sage suggestions. Our heartfelt acquiescence is true, after all there is only one me. They festoon the ledges with cards. Talk news from the provinces. Friday. Morning: newspapers and despatches. Prime ministers! Cannot live with them, cannot live without them. That Orstralian fellow said he was a bulldozer. Hard to disagree. Afternoon: pedicure.