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depth, and out of his comfort zone.
    Mr Shorthouse did his best to reassure us both. ‘Look, let’s not pre-empt problems before we know exactly what are are dealing with’. He reinforced, ‘I realise that this is a worry, but we need to remove the lump first, and then formulate where we go when we have firm results.’
    Likened to zombies, we reversed the procedure that had taken place twenty minutes earlier. We stood up, shook hands, and the friendly, plump lady, whom we now knew as Brenda, showed us out of the office and back down the corridor.
    â€˜I’ll be here to meet you tomorrow evening,’ she smiled. Brenda put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a reassuring hug. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she added.
    I nodded, smiled, and turned to Nigel, who was doing his best to keep positive for me. The return journey back in the car seemed a long one, although in reality the distance was very short. Thinking back to that evening, my mind was so full of questions, but my brain couldn’t articulate them in any sort of order to make sense. It was as though the playback button had got stuck in one place.

Surgery
    Making visits to Thornbury hospital was becoming more of a ritual than I cared for.
    We’d been back and forth so many times in the past two weeks, that I was beginning to think that the car would be able to drive itself there. As arranged, Brenda was there to meet us. ‘Are we alright?’ she asked, looking at us both. ‘Yes, thanks: fine,’ I answered, trying to sound very casual. Although now a hospital, the building is a very grand one, and not at all what you would imagine a hospital to be like. Thornbury was originally built between 1864 and 1865, when Frederick Mappin, the cutlery and steel magnate, commissioned architects to design him a new house. Mappin had previously been a master cutler in 1855 and went on to become Mayor of Sheffield in 1877/8, and a liberal MP in 1880. During World War Two, the house was used for storage by the Admiralty; until, in 1947 it was purchased by the newly formed NHS for £11,500, and subsequently used as an annexe for the Sheffield Children’s Hospital.
    A few feet into the entrance lobby is the reception desk, where you are first met by Thornbury staff, who try their very best to put you at ease. Immediately behind you is a very grand, mahogany staircase, which wouldn’t look out of place on a film set. You could just imagine Lady Mary, from the cast of Downton Abbey, sweeping her way down the staircase into the arms of Cousin Matthew, and living happily ever after.
    â€˜You’re on Mappin Ward. Do you want to walk, or take the lift?’ Brenda questioned. ‘It’s on the first floor: not far to go’. ‘Oh, we’ll walk: no problem,’ I answered.
    Mappin Ward was familiar. I’d been on Mappin four years ago, when I was admitted for my laminectomy: room eleven, as I recall. As we followed Brenda up and onto the ward, I realised that some of the staff had familiar faces, and I wondered if some of them might remember me. Why would they, though? Right at the bottom of the corridor was my room for the overnight stay. We entered the room, which had my name printed on it and another sign saying, ‘nil by mouth’. Ugh, I thought, that sounds familiar. (When you are admitted into hospital, and are due to have surgery the same day, you are unable to eat or drink anything because of the general anaesthetic. Hence the ‘nil by mouth’.)
    I was surprised at how large it was inside; it was more like a suite than a room. I didn’t remember the other rooms being as large as this, previously. There was a two-seater settee to the left, which was covered in a denim-type material, with a matching chair just to the right of that. The bathroom was set back, and again I was surprised at how large it was. I can remember thinking that most hotel bedrooms would struggle to be as airy