Six weeks

Each day is a bit better. I'm still frantic about the knee, but I can sit more easily and think of moving myself more—suddenly realising I might be able to put my dressing gown on by myself, or sit without the pillow on the footstool.

I have asked my surgeon if he will refer me to Queen Elizabeth Hospital. He thinks it's a good idea. What is Queen Elizabeth Hospital? the nurses ask. I say, it's like boot camp. Up at the crack of dawn and working all day. Five days a week. You live in and all you have to concentrate on are the exercises.

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Peter, my nephew, has drawn me another picture. A big circle, two dots for eyes, a dot for the nose, small handles for the ears and a wide scribble of hair that hovers, like a halo.

Elizabeth, who was in our cubicle three weeks ago, has just arrived back after dislocating her new hip replacement.

Last night four admissions at 4am.