It is 4.21 am and this is my first night out of hospital. I have a few holes in my tummy, one of which is reluctant to close up, but we are talking discomfort rather than pain.
When I got to the hospital, the nurses were horrified to see that I was a woman and not a man, and so I got a room to myself (at first). French people always seem to think the name Gillian is that of a man, and they had arranged for me to share a two bedroom ward with a man...
They gravely informed me that this is illegal.
When I got to the operating theatre a series of nurses kept asking me my name and date of birth, showing a healthy scepticism with regard to the label on my wrist. I couldn't help wondering whether the wrong person had had the wrong bit chopped out at some point...
I looked about me for Zhoen and tried to feel reassured as I imagined her French equivalent competantly exchanging dry remarks with the surgeon.
I got back to my room and discovered that the next bed had been occupied by an elderly Breton matriarch of 82 who had 7 children, 32 grand children and 25 great grandchildren, all of whom were phoning her at 5 minute intervals. She was very deaf and felt disposed to chat... I didn't.
Opposite each bed was a television hanging on the wall, and a set of headphones was provided to avoid disturbing other patients. My neighbour would have no truck with these new fangled gadgets, put them on her bed and turned the volume up to maximum so the headphones acted as loud but tinny speakers as she screamed down the phone to her relatives.
So it was with relief that I came home after just one day recovering from the operation.
But there is just one thing, if you are wondering why I am blogging at 4am, it is the bed.
I just cant get comfy in my comfy bed, because I need to be almost upright.
I wish I could have taken the hospital bed home with me...
12 hours ago