The green pyjamas of Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. I’ve replaced mine with my own gear. The Pink Floyd cricket tee shirt out shines local provision.
But that’s a reminder that I’m stuck. Partly by fate of ill health. It’s fair to say the desire of the hospital staff to clean me has increased. Because at present I lack the capacity to cleanse myself. A serious and hopefully reversible deterioration.
So I have been cleaned intimately by NHS strangers. They were damned humerous and made the experience easy despite my feeling deeply embarrassed by the necessary situation.
Despite listening to Yorkshire accents I’ve had my head in the USA touring the Pacific Coast Highway. Yes, been there, done it before. Unlikely to get back to be honest. And I am still in the town of Huddersfield. So not quite the same. But a great reminder of trips gone by and, even if my body is thinking about giving up, I’ve actually lived a little and shared the fun.
Maybe I can become me again. But for now hospital bed, gloved NHS washers who are exceptional people and necessary health investigators too are my essential support. I’m feeble and a long way from being anything else. But the memories remain.