Before the op, I was going to write a jaunty piece about how getting yourself ready to go into hospital is like getting ready to go to a wedding. Both require new clothes – that is unless you feel confident that your jimjams – dressing gown, slippers and, for goodness’ sake, knickers – are all presentable.

Now, back home after quite a major op for bowel cancer, I’m not feeling quite so jaunty. At a time when the NHS is described as broken and in need of reform, I know I’ve been lucky. I was diagnosed early, had a brilliant consultant surgeon whose communication skills were equal to his surgical skills, and a specialist nurse who was able to talk me through my many anxieties. If I’m less jaunty and find it hard to talk about my time in Ward 23 of Edinburgh’s Western General Hospital, it’s partly because recovery is slow and partly because, for a dozen days, Ward 23 became my home and the other patients became – well, my clan. There’s a kind of unique and slightly strange intimacy about sharing a ward.

There are those in a worse state than you. You are very, very sorry while also being glad that your own situation is not as bad

I think that maybe the world is divided into those who, given a choice, would prefer to be in a ward and those who want a room to themselves. I’m a ward woman myself. If I’m going to be ill, I like company. Also, drama. There are five of us in Ward 23 – five women with bowel problems in a ward with one toilet. Four of us are over 70 (the eldest being 87), and one is in her fifties.

My bed in Ward 23 is by the window. I feel I have been gifted with sky. Beyond the sky is a view of the Pentlands (Robert........

© The Spectator