The music in the walls

Breakfast is served very early at Saint Feasance's. And what with information being so thin on the ground, it's only when I receive said meal that I know I shall not be opened that day. Today. They like a chap hungry when they cut him. Or her.

Strangely enough my slippers and dressing gown were returned to the bedside at some point and no one objects as I pad out into the sunlit corridors, whistling a tune I don't recognise and wondering if there's a newspaper kiosk in the lobby.
But some considerable expenditure of energy and shoe (well, slipper) leather finally draws one to the conclusion that this hospital does not, in fact, have a lobby. Nor a front door.

There is a note from Davison on the bedside locker when I return to the ward. Unfortunately I don't read it immediately, and by the time I decide to read it I have realised that, in fact there is no note. I imagined it. Silly me. Next time I will be quicker off the mark.

I relate this daft little trifle to the nurse who brings me my afternoon suppository and we both laugh.