IT WAS about 3am when the alarm sounded in my head; it was in affect an urgent message sent from the brain to legs saying that a visit to the bathroom – a hasty one – was being demanded by a full bladder; it is generally known these day as heeding ‘the call of nature’.

Wearily I staggered out of bed in pitch darkness; having slept in the same bedroom for well over 40 years I know every inch of it and have made the same journey many times without the need for light. However, on this occasion, my confidence was clearly misplaced, for I tripped – over what I still do not know – and fell heavily, hitting a wall on the way down; my right arm bore the brunt and I immediately suspected that I had done it some mischief. Awakened by the commotion, Ann helped me up, and, after I had fulfilled my journey to the bathroom I returned to bed and despite being in some pain, fell asleep.

I awoke at dawn and was still experiencing quite a bit of discomfort. I looked at my lower arm, it was swollen greatly and resembled a giant black sausage. Ann strongly suggested that I go to the local injuries unit; usually I heed her advice, but this time I did not, even though, deep down, I knew it was the sensible course of action. Unfortunately my customary indolence had taken complete control and sitting in a hospital waiting room had absolutely no allure.

I could not even be persuaded when later that morning a friend of ours – a former nurse – who had popped in, took one look at the abused limb and straightaway suggested an x-ray. “Let’s see what it’s like tomorrow,” said I, somewhat lamely.

Tomorrow duly came and of course the arm was no better, worse in fact. Just as I was about to accept the necessity of seeking medical help and advice, our son David, visiting for the weekend, came across the threshold. Instantly upon learning of the mishap that had come about he offered to take me up to Tavistock hospital – a kindness accepted with much gratitude.

We soon arrived at this much valued medical facility, the continuity of which is seemingly often threatened in the pursuit of NHS economies. Being there early – it was just past 9am – the waiting room was empty and soon we were called to the treatment area; the saga was about to commence. A most pleasant lady, about her an aura of competence, invited us to be seated, then produced a laptop. She started to take my personal details; it was not a brief interview.

The obvious was asked, of course – name, age, address and such – plus plenty more, so much of which appeared to have little relevance. Then she enquired as to the reason for my visit, it clearly not being a social call. I showed her the ebony hued lump that was my lower right arm and once more she attacked her computer asking for details of my accident and suchlike.

Eventually she finished and we were joined by a most courteous nurse whose verdict was not long in coming; “you need an x-ray,” said she, “it could be broken.” Not good news, of course, but not an unexpected outcome. I proffered my thanks then added, as I know the layout of the hospital reasonably well, “just down the corridor, isn’t it?” Instantly I was corrected. “No,” said the nurse, “that department is shut today, you will have to go to Liskeard.”

On hearing the news my stomach sank and my brain began to formulate all manner of half-baked excuses as to why this was not a good idea, but my gallant chauffeur did not, as the saying goes, ‘bat an eyelid’. He took from the nurse a large buff envelope containing my personal details, those of my injury and a request I be given an x-ray, then we set off.

We arrived at the town ‘south of the border’ and soon located the hospital. We parked, entered the healing facility and to the lady at reception I presented my letter from Tavistock. It proved to be a moment when the River Tamar, boundary between Devon and Cornwall, became akin to the Rio Grande, which divides the very different nations of Mexico and The United States. “I’m sorry,” said she, “but because you are now in a different county I have to take your details again.” This she did – at great length; why, I know not, but surely vital, limited NHS resources can be more gainfully utilised. After this repeat interrogation, we were invited to reside in the waiting room, “it won’t be long,” she promised.

An hour later we were still awaiting attention. I was, by then, in favour of eschewing medical help and returning home. Dave fortunately possesses his mother’s patience and persuaded me to stay. He was right to do so for soon after this I was seen to; x-rays were done, a broken wrist diagnosed, a most skilled lady attended to it and, clutching a sheet of printed instructions, I was discharged. For the first time in my life I was literally plastered as opposed to being metaphorically so. The latter is far more preferable.