It's late evening. I've been out of my room, exploring the corridors. Nobody seemed to mind.
It's fairly quiet now. Voices carry a long way. But I sat in the Reception area, lit only by pools of light, for some time without anyone passing. I read, of all things, a glossy quarterly magazine on shooting and field sports. A new Purdey is out: the famous gunmaking firm will celebrate its 200th anniversary in 2014. The magazine was full of articles on fishing as well as shooting. And there was a small section on social events for those with the money, background and taste for muddy moments in Burberry jackets and Dubarry boots. Or more glamorous evenings, husbands and wives together, or fresh-faced young men yet to be swept up by girls in tweeds with Kate Middleton hairstyles called Rosie and Katia and Hannah. And, yes, Lucy. What can one say?
I'm not especially tired. I'm a bit peckish, but resisted devouring a secret and illicit Kitkat or Mars Bar from a vending machine. I can drink water until 4:00am; then they'll look in and take away anything to drink. Mr Thomas is now doing me first. A sudden death, so to speak.
I feel calm, as if waiting patiently to be called to Gate Something for my flight to Somewhere. I've had many texts and emails, and one voice call, wishing me all the best. I'm very grateful. Everyone at the hospital has been so nice to me. I feel I'm in very competent hands.
Eleven o'clock. At home I'd be having an end-of-evening read, and a quick game of Solitaire on my iPAQ. I'm going to do the same here, on the eve of a momentous, life-enhancing event. Don't you just cling to routine, no matter what?
Quarter to midnight. A nice nurse called Dawn has visited me and my blood pressure is 136/82: not bad. No racing pulse here.
Time to clean my teeth and get some sleep. Goodnight, everyone. Sweet dreams.