We don't know where we're going 'til we're there

The walls of this place don't like me, confided the tea lady, by way of explaining her habit of walking a dead-straight course down the very centre of the corridors, equidistant from any and all nearby threat. I had come to look forward to the squeak-squeak approach of her urn trolley, making its slow progress towards the ward, with perhaps a jam tart on the second tier for me, on a little plate by itself. I wonder what they've done with her?