If you’ve been reading my blog, you’ll know that I’m now nine weeks in to a year-long MA in Photojournalism and Documentary Photography course at London College of Communication. As predicted it’s been a roller-coaster of a start. Both exhilarating highs and extreme learning-curve lows. A journey in every sense.

And as you can imagine life’s pretty hectic. Midweek I’m at university in London, then at weekends I’m back in Birmingham completing assignments, and squeezing in any other work I have – as well as finding valuable, and much needed time out with my husband.

Each Tuesday evening after a long day at work, I have one hour at home with Tom to squeeze in a quick dinner. Then I head off to New Street to catch my late night train to Watford, where I’ll stay with my parents for two or three nights each week for a whole year.

It’s a strange thing; living out of a bag and leaving my comfy marital home to return to my parental home, after ten years or so away. I’m lucky to have really supportive parents, who pick me up late at night from the station and show a real interest in my work and study. I’m really grateful to them for that. In fact I’m enjoying seeing them and catching up on time lost over recent years. Two days there is just the right amount of time back at ‘Home’ – not too long to be claustrophobic, not to short that we’d pass like ships in the night.

University assignments are challenging, and their complexity and depth increases each week, to deliberately expand our knowledge, skill and ultimately professional competence. It’s hard work selling potential stories to new contacts, securing locations to photograph and achieving permission, over and over again every week. Then there’s finding the energy, creativity and skill to shoot to brief successfully each time, as the competitive industry demands.

We’ve also taken a lot of photography theory and history on board over the weeks. I’m finding this part of the learning informative and invigorating, adding new knowledge to my almost clean theoretical slate. For some students their neatly ordered ideas about what makes a great image or story have been temporarily shattered only to be restored again with time and persistence.

Despite the inevitable challenges of learning, commuting and tightening our belts to pay for it, the journey is definitely worth it. And what make’s this all possible is the endless patience and support of my husband who is my constant and faithful travel companion.

A refreshing start to the weekend, before the busy week to come.

My husband, Tom, runs a successful cookery school and a bakery from our from our two-bed terrace in Birmingham.

It’s true, home is where the heart is - and the best breakfasts, lunches and dinners.

It’s a funny thing, marriage. The longer we’ve been together the more I miss being away.

The journey from Birmingham to Watford takes over two hours. The heating is always way too hot on the train but the green London Midland seats are comfy. There’s plenty of opportunity on the journey to study and read.

There are few passengers left on the once packed train, by the time I reach my destination on the first leg of my journey.

Living out of a bag is both liberating and tiring. My camera is my main companion.

As routine, dinner is eaten by my parents on trays late at night, sometimes in front of the TV.

Late night photo editing and study before university the next day.

The 8:08am train from Watford Met to Baker Street stops at twelve stations on the way. The train is full to bursting with commuters as we near London, but nobody makes eye contact or talks.

The main stairwell at London College of Communication, in Elephant and Castle. MA lectures and tutorials are challenging, yet rewarding.

Completing the penultimate leg of my return journey, back at Birmingham New Street.

Journey’s end. At home again in Birmingham. The highlight of my week.

Housed in the old ‘ink mixing room’, as the hand-painted sign indicates, it still retains the industrial charm of what once was an old Birmingham print works. As you enter through a heavy sliding door, the room opens up before you into an eclectic array of chairs and tables, few matching, adding to their collective rustic charm. On the floor, colourful circular traces recall the memory of old paint tins, still vivid in our imagination but sadly long gone.

From conception to launch in November 2011, the café took two months to create, through the dedication and hard work of thirty volunteers, who transformed the cold, old space in to the warm and inviting place it is today.

Conceived by Ridhi Kalaria, Josephine Reichert and Noemi Rincorn, these three young female philosophers proved that they were on to something from the start. With no capital they set up on the generosity of strangers and friends who donated kitchen utensils, a fridge, an oven and furniture, and from treasures found in the rich depths of local Balsall Heath skips.

German for the word place, ORT Café, has a philosophy and nature reminiscent of thriving creative quarters and squats of neighbouring European cities such as Berlin or Ljubliana. It hosts a busy community-led events programme; from packed evening gigs, to critical discussions on philosophy, literature and the sciences as well as swap shops and free language and maths courses. It also boasts a small ‘non-elitist’ gallery space, which is free for local artists to use, all aimed at encouraging healthy skills exchange.

“ ORT is a space where people can drop by without having to purchase anything; they can take part in activities without consumption. We love the diversity of Birmingham and want to maintain it. We believe that a place like ORT was missing in this area and with such an eclectic array of people, we are passionate about sustaining this project for years to come ” Josephine Reichert (not pictured)

The café menu boasts homemade vegetarian and piscatarian food, cakes and hot and cold drinks, prepared before you as you wait. It’s not often you watch a cake being made from scratch, apron on, sleeves rolled up and mixing ingredients in a large bowl just like I remember my mother used to do. But it’s not just a mixing of ingredients that takes centre stage here, it’s the mixing of ideas and creativity that makes this place unique.

The atmosphere is calm and friendly, and if you arrived knowing nobody, you’ll leave as I did, saying your goodbyes to everyone, after wiling away the afternoon with interesting discussion and a great cuppa!

www.ortcafe.co.uk
Ort Cafe, at the Old Print Works
500-506 Moseley Road
Balsall Heath
Birmingham, B12 9AL

The Hare Krishna Temple

I had met a lively group of Hare Krishnas in Birmingham City Centre a year to eighteen months ago. They were singing mantras with such vigour and passion, and seemed colourful and friendly in every way. Already having an interest in photographing people of faith, I stopped to talk for a while before asking if I could visit their temple one day.

It’s a year or so later. I make arrangements by phone. They remember me still. The Temple leader is happy for me to come. I’m all set.

A short walk from the number 11 bus stop and I arrive at number 84. The Hare Krishna Temple is in an inconspicuous, white-washed house on a normal residential street in Birmingham. I ring the doorbell and it is opened by a beautiful, young woman who welcomes me in. She then disappears back down the corridor ahead before I can ask her where to go, and I am left without a host. I gaze in and see shoes upon the floor and placed on wooden shelves. I take this cue and remove mine as well, before following the sound of singing. The door is open and the amber glow of the tungsten bulb directs me in.

Sunday night at the Hare Krishna Temple is a time for lively communal worship (Kirtans and Bhajans), teachings from the Bhagavad Gita, singing and dancing (Aarti) and sharing food together. The room is open-plan, painted in pastel colours and with religious gold-framed paintings hung on the wall. At either end are shrines. One with three animated deities, richly decorated in colourful paints, jewels, flower garlands and gilt and jewelled crowns. They have big bright eyes and cheerful, upturned mouths. At the other end is a raised throne-like plinth with a life-like model of the late founder of the Hare Krishna movement, seated cross-legged, bald and wearing white, with a pale brown skin tone. I do a double-take, he looks so real.

In the centre of the room, seated cross-legged on the floor are five young men on cushions. The leader is playing a harmonium, an organ like instrument surrounded by men playing doubled ended khols or mridanga drums, and hand cymbals (kartals). They music and chanting is upbeat. Some of the men wear jeans and sports tops, some wear dhotis (traditional clothing). Many have wooden rosary prayer beads (mala) around their necks or hanging from their shoulders in cloth bags, and painted bindis adorning their foreheads. One or two have sikha, a tuft of hair upon their otherwise shaved heads. About the same number of young women are seated, subservient, in a line along the opposite wall facing the male leaders – their husbands, brothers, uncles and friends.

As an unbeliever, I realise there may be some rituals and beliefs that are unfamiliar to me and I don’t want to offend or distract anyone from worship. I move about the room quietly photographing the musicians, the deities and the women as sensitively as possible. One of the two resident monks calmly enters the room, a serene, yet private man. He doesn’t make eye contact with me, or with anyone. Before the shrines he circles offerings of incense and candles then closes the curtains to ‘feed’ the deities. I soak up the atmosphere, absorbing information about Hare Krishna’s from real-time observations, whilst checking every now and then that my movements are welcome.

As the singing and dancing continues the room gradually fills up, as more and more people arrive. As they enter some bow in front of the deities, prostrating themselves on the floor or standing with hands raised in the air. Some offer flowers or money. Many of them clock me and I give a reassuring smile. I hope there will be opportunity to introduce myself to the whole group soon.

The music ceases, signalling the beginning of class. The leader asks if there are any visitors today. I allow a pause for others to respond before finally introducing myself, and the purpose of my visit. Piles of dog-eared Bhagavad Gita are being handed around. I am given one too, a little surprised to be included. The theme for this week is devotion and service. I weigh up what to do. Listen or photograph the group reading from their holy book? The atmosphere is calmer now and visually there is less to photograph, so I decide to observe and objectively understand more about Hare Krishna beliefs. I open the book on the relevant chapter and four paragraphs later I’m asked to read too! All eyes are on me. I oblige respectfully, but contemplate to myself whether I should have continued photographing after all.

It >> It dawns on me that at this moment the photographer to subject dynamic has begun to change. The room is full now with forty or so people – men, women and children, arriving across the space of two hours. Gradually I find myself being included in the proceedings. I’m given prayer beads. I’m given new believer books to take home. I’m given tasty homemade dhal and rice. I’m even asked when my birthday is by the leader, then before I know it they’re singing happy birthday and a cake is being cut for me! I endeavour to continue discretely taking photographs and to take my position again behind my camera, but with a different sort of attention now on me the moments to photograph become the same moments people ask me to join in with activities. The opportunity to capture photographs is slipping away. I discretely exit the room to remove attention from me, the new and interested visitor, returning a short while later. But inevitably the dynamic has changed.

Lesson Learnt

I like to think I’m good at getting to know people, showing interest in other people’s passions, building a rapport and gaining trust. When I approach a new subject to photograph I explain who I am and what the purpose of my photography is. I ask them to try to ignore the camera and get on with what they would normally be doing. I am naturally inquisitive and love to know the story behind the photographs. What motivates them? What is the history behind what they do? What are their passions and their hopes for the future? Often I ask lots of questions, sometimes I even record an interview.

But I’ve learnt something new about human relationships. Not about how to capture fascinating pictures of subjects interacting, but importantly about how the relationship between photographer and subject can change very quickly. I’ve found myself unexpectedly balancing on a tightrope between being a photographer and becoming a participant, suddenly finding myself slipping out of role as I’m included in the activities I am choosing to photograph.

It has left me reflecting on what it means to be an observer, and considering how I communicate effectively so that the reason for my visit is mutually understood and I maintain a professional authority in doing my work. I’ve also learnt a lot about when to put the camera down or not, and about how my movements are perceived. As I observe, I’m being observed too.

It’s a fine-line that photographers straddle in building relationships with subjects. And for now it’s my learning curve.

Up here the room is dark, but sunlight streams in through the south-facing leaded window on to the bench below where Haydn is working. It illuminates hundreds of beautiful old wooden-handled chisels, files and assorted tools. Some stand to attention like soldiers on parade in their respective positions against the low window-sill. Others scattered at ease on the bench, their location known only to their solitary commander. Each tool blackened over the decades, but still proudly retaining the strength and precision it was designed with, for the job. Solid and dependable. Made by the hand of a crafts person that has gone before.

I’d expected Haydn to be ageing, maybe even with a distinguished beard. But he’s in his forties, near clean-shaven, slim and with a quiet and gentle manner about him. He welcome’s me in to his workshop. It’s quiet, all but for the tiny, almost mute, noise of a radio for company. Around the edges Haydn’s apron hints at its former white, bleached brilliance. But now it shows the traces of tired hands, pausing to wipe away the dirt before returning to their manual labour. Familiar, skilled, comforting work even.

Much of the machinery looks like it hasn’t been touched for a long time, left in situ it seems for maybe thirty years. Some have fan-belts, stretching skyward. Reminiscent of early twentieth-century workhouse factories, once preserved in memory upon black and white photographic paper. Some have huge steel wheels to set their parts in motion. Some have spiralling drill bits. Some have blades.

Haydn works as we talk, filing and smoothing small metal components at a comparatively oversized steel clamp by the lit window. My questions are now coming fast, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I ask about the business. He reflects on its name Jesse Hill, called so after his now departed grandfather and namesake. Haydn began working for the family business as an apprentice at the age of sixteen, following in the footsteps of his father. It was expected, assumed even, that he would become a gunmaker too. I ask whether gun making is his passion, but I’m surprised to hear it’s not. He doesn’t even own a gun, but still has the highly specialist skill to make them.

I ask if Haydn has any photographs of Jesse Hill from the past. He disappears through the wooden door behind him marked PRIVATE, and in to the small one-man office, and returns holding a frame containing three black and white photographs. He talks of his father and grandfather, pointing warmly at each portrait as he speaks, and with nostalgia. The local Stirchley History Society would surely be interested in seeing these, I remark. As I silently reflect for a moment on what has been said Haydn rests the frame on a small circular, wooden stool, facing out in to the room as if his grandfather is now with us in spirit. His silent presence in the room.

I ask about the future of his business and learn that Haydn is the last in line. There is no next generation to take on the baton of responsibility. But what will happen to everything here once Haydn has gone? And with only one or two gunmakers remaining in Birmingham, this is surely becoming a unique but dying trade. We talk of heritage, museums, restoration and preserving history, craft and beauty. The campaigner in me sparks an interest in what I could do to help. But is it my place to interfere?

Haydn sets back to work at the bench and I realise that I haven’t seen anything that resembles a gun yet and I’ve been here now for half an hour, forty-five minutes even. With curiosity I survey the room again. How could I have missed it? There’s one leaning quietly against the legs of the bench – right in front of me. The double barrel of what seems to be a huge shotgun but without all its other parts. I don’t think I’ve ever even held a gun. There’s no technical or even sporting knowledge of guns stored for safe keeping in the farthest regions of my brain. I’m clearly not a gun expert or enthusiast. But Haydn is patient with me.

I’m surprised that the gun hasn’t been screaming ‘look at me’ all this time. Instead it has retained a vow of silence. Haydn picks it up to show me, and I become aware of how imposing it is. I rest my camera on its strap around my neck and pick up the gun from his hands. It’s weighty, almost unreal.

Haydn also shows me a newly restored shotgun, ready for his client to pick up at 3pm. It is slender, decorated with fine engraving flanked on either side by polished wood. He disassembles it pleasingly in to manageable, constituent parts. Haydn is at the beginning of the supply chain. Some of the guns he makes and refurbishes go to experienced collectors, some of whom then ship them on to clients abroad.

As I photograph Haydn now back at the work-bench clamp, there is a jarring moment when I realise I am literally looking down the barrel of a gun, in the line of fire. It’s a position I have never been in before. But there’s nothing threatening about this beautiful bold, object and its maker, a craftsman continuing the work of his father and generations that have gone before.

Stirchley Local History Photograph – Jesse Hill

It’s Saturday morning when I head out. I haven’t made an appointment. I don’t even have a phone number for them. I take a chance they’ll be working today and walk over the canal bridge and down the hill to Stirchley.

When I arrive I’m not quite sure where the entrance is. There’s a narrow, muddy path to the side of the building that runs behind the adjacent shops on the main high street. I’m looking for a sign-posted public entrance. There isn’t one down here. I re-trace my steps back to Ashtree Road, to see a small window-like hatch in the green warehouse wall. Like the entrance you might get at a garage when the metal shutters are down to the public. But this door is made of wood, and the padlock is open.

I rap on the door twice, to no answer and then push it gently inwards. It clicks open. I step over the wooden frame and gaze out in front to me. The room is dark, filled with old looking machinery, and tools hung on the wall. Two faces look out at me. I call out ‘Hi’. ‘Hi’ they respond. ‘Can I come in?’ ‘Yes, come in’. What I love about Birmingham, the Midlands even, is how friendly people are. The door always seems to be open.

I read their faces. Friendly, but a little intrigued to see why a 5ft 3inch woman with a camera bag has just arrived through their door. In his mannerisms John stands out to be the boss. I shake his oil-blackened hand. Pulling across the blue spring-like hose suspended from the ceiling, he describes how they primarily make compressor valves, the sort you may use to spray air in to tyres.

For the next 90 minutes, I’m given free reign to photograph John and Narinder as they focus on their work, stopping only to give me the odd explanation, before peering back in to machines with cogs and clamps, or dated looking digital controls and moving parts. This work takes a lot of concentration, boring precision holes and shaping small metal parts to the nth millimetre. I’m told not to stand in front of the steel, rotating wheel on the main machine, from which tiny, metal shavings dance in to the air fleetingly before dropping to the floor. I get as close as is safely possible with my 50mm, non-zoom lens.

Towards the back corner of the room is a solid looking, stand-alone heater, it’s tubes glowing red to heat the whole space. Narinder has a colourful, striped scarf wrapped tighly in the space where his blue, buttoned work coat doesn’t quite cover his neck. On his head is a neat, black turban. I keep my coat on too. It’s cold.

Next to the drill where Narinder is working, I notice an old work-bench butted-up in one corner, strewn with drill bits and a table top cabinet with protruding, shallow wooden drawers. It’s a relic of the past, overlooked by the clock keeping time above. There’s so much to look at here, but it’s noon and I’ve done enough for today. Their customer has arrived and it’s my cue to give them some space. Saturday is a half-day and they’ll soon be heading home to enjoy their weekends.

Before I go, John tells me enthusiastically about Haydn, the gun maker in the workshop above. He uses even older, machinery than I’ve experienced here today, passed down from his grandfather and through generations. I’m told he’ll be back in on Monday from 10am to 4pm, and well worth the visit. Apparently it’s a real gem.

It’s pretty dark in the morning when I get up. Tom, my husband, has already started his morning sourdough bake. In the dim light I take a few practice pictures and get used to not having any manual controls. My eyes are going to have to work hard on focusing each shot today.

Rossiters, Birmingham’s traditional organic butcher’s shop is open already when I arrive, and a friendly face greets me over the glass counter, followed by owner, Steve. He introduces me to his colleagues Les and Dave. They are all dressed smartly in clean, white chefs whites, and underneath, pressed shirts and black ties. We exchange a smile and I ask how business is going. I’m told very well.

I’m led past a meat-slicing machine between the wall and the counter then we take a left to pass the under-stairs cubby-hole office. The back room contains a huge, imposing wooden butchers block to the right and a cold storage room to the left. There are saws hanging from the ceiling, ridged with sharp teeth.

Steve has already begun work in the outhouse at the back, vacuum-packing seafood. I’ve already arranged to photograph him, but choosing him as my subject from the onset is my first mistake. It’s not because he’s not photogenic or relaxed in front of the camera. He is. It’s just that Les’s work on the butcher’s block, preparing huge slabs of meat is catching my eye. He has an array of tools, and shows a confident and decisive skill with each blade. I compliment him, and re-affirm my observation with a question; “ You appear to be very talented at your job. How long have you being doing this for?” The answer is longer than my lifetime. I ask if he’d mind if I photograph him. Of course not.

The sun light in this room is harsh and low as it streams through the glass panes of the back door on the butchers slab. Positioning myself so that the window frame blocks the full force of the light, I use the rays to my advantage, capturing the scene as the residual light flits over the sharp blades, and bounces off the stainless steal splash-back wall. There is a rawness to the scene. Lifeless lumps of meat. Strong, coiled butchers string. Cold steel. But the atmosphere is warm and the meat is a rich, succulent red.

I stand at the bridge between the shop and the meat preparation room in what is essentially a tiny corridor. Over the shop glass counter customers exchange stories and banter with the staff as sausages, and huge dinner party sized portions of organic meat are purchased. The queue is long, but relaxed as regulars wait loyally for their turn. One mother and her young child, I’m told, are the newest generation of a long line of family that has sought custom here for many a year. To the other direction the precision craft of artisan hands is being outworked upon tender flesh on the butcher’s slab.

I realise that as both a local customer and now a visiting photographer, metaphorically I straddle both these public and private places too. It’s a privilege to be able to experience and capture a small behind-the-scenes glimpse of such a well-respected and now rare traditional business like this.

There are a lot of discoveries ahead. Photographing the rich tapestry of people’s lives around me is rapidly opening up my world… and I hope, more and more, the world of those who view and critique my work.

[ Blogs to come soon 'Engineer...' and 'Gun maker...' A gallery of all the pics from this series will go up on my website over the next few weeks]

That sounds fair. I accept. However, there are restrictions. Use a 50mm lens. Manual focus only, 400 ISO, black and white, no flash and no editing. And there’s a theme to photograph; ‘People at Work’. Three sets of them. Three individuals, in three different professions.

I’m straight on to it at lunchtime. I research the number for Birmingham’s only traditional organic butchers, phoning from the London college’s Library, standing outside the ‘Quite Study Zone’ where strict food and noise restrictions apply. Steve Rossiter picks up the phone with very few words, almost monosyllabic compared to his usual ‘smiley’ personality. It must be busy in the shop as usual. His business is thriving.

Butchers Block and Saw

Part of the challenge of the assignment is to identify an interesting and photogenic profession, building an understanding and mutual trust with the subject from the onset. This way, I hope gaining permission to photograph will be easier. I explain what I’d like to do and ask if he has any questions. We arrange for me to visit at 8.30am the next morning. Making arrangements and gaining permission seems surprisingly easy. Empowering even. Why am I usually so scared of picking up the phone? Week one and my self-imposed defences are already being broken down. It’s refreshing.

The Thursday night commute back to Birmingham brings me home by 10.30pm. I’m pretty exhausted when I come through the front door, greeted enthusiastically by my husband Tom. He’s missed me. I’ve been carrying way to many heavy bags for three days. It’s a relief to put them down and soon roll up our wooden stairs to bed, ready for the next morning.

Platform 6A is dark, underground at Birmingham New Street. I wonder whether the other passengers know which direction is forward. The way they’re scattered across seats facing both directions doesn’t give me any clues. At 19:59 my train departs, running six minutes late. As we roll out of the station I discover I’m travelling backwards.

This is going to become a very familiar route from my home in Birmingham to London over the coming year, but it’ll be worth it. I’m living a long-time dream to complete the world renowned MA in Photojournalism and Documentary Photography at London College of Communication (#MAPJD). I’ve kept an interested eye on the course since 2008, and this year I finally bit the bullet and applied hoping my portfolio was strong enough. And here I am at last.

It’s been an uplifting start, carried by adrenaline for a week by the prospect of the year ahead. I’m studying alongside some extremely talented photographers, designers, filmakers, directors of photography and radio producers from across the globe. I can’t really believe I’m here. What a privilege.

I know it’s going to be a tough year, stepping way beyond my comfort zone. Facing my self-imposed fears head on. Challenging my creativity. Pushing my photography to its limits. It’s what I want. It’s what my photography needs. And it’s about time.

I don’t expect to become the perfect photographer, in fact, far from it. John, our tutor, has warned us that, from the start, even the most experienced photographers on the course will have their faults exposed through a rigorous programme of assignments. It’s refreshing. I can get things wrong. I will mess up. But each time I’ll learn from my mistakes. Already there’s no going back.

As a wise photographer once said; “If you think that you’ve taken the perfect picture then it’s time to put your camera down” (Anon).

I’m now exactly one hour in to my journey that also marks the start of a year’s worth of blogs. I’m pretty excited about writing, about sharing my journey, my stories and adventures. This place on my website has been pretty dormant until now. It’s time to wake things up. And a two-hour train journey twice a week gives me just the chance.

From now on I’m facing forward.

It’s Monday morning at 9.15am and it’s busy. I’m sharing a ward room with surgical heart patients. They’re all lovely. Recovering, brave, beautiful, women. There are four consultant types and three nurses in the room. Two trolleys. Lots of talk. Too many cooks. None of the doctors are here to see me.

The weekend was a completely different story. There were no doctors – for hours, literally. I was promised an ultrasound scan on Friday night. It is yet to come and my abdomen pain has, of course, now gone.

I’m young, 30, fit and healthy. I cycle regularly, as fast as I can. I eat a balanced diet and grow my own veggies. I swim, but only when my neighbour is going too and can give me a lift. I walk and bus everywhere. I have a normal temperature, healthy lungs and a healthy blood pressure. I’m up, showered and dressed. No help needed. I’ve had rice crispies for breakfast and a cup of tea.

Why am I here? I woke with severe pains in my abdomen during the early hours of Friday morning. I’ve also had a chesty cough and some diarrhoea. I’ll spare you the details. By Friday evening I was in CDU at the shiny, new, Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham, just to be cautious. I started my visit in the Clinical Decision Unit hoping for a blood test, something to ease the pain and a suggestion of what it might be. I wasn’t planning on an overnight stay.

I’ve just returned from a work trip to Uganda and this mere fact means without a diagnosis yet, I have to sleep in a hospital bed for a night; ‘Sorry Mrs Baker, we can’t let you go home tonight’. Each day that I ask to be discharged, they say the same. They’re worried about tropical diseases.

I’ve have been waited on hand and foot all weekend by dedicated, friendly nursing staff. Hospital meals, cups of tea, new bed linen, fresh water. It has felt like being in a hotel at times, except that they check your temperature, blood pressure and breathing regularly.

But blink and you’ll miss the doctors.

10.45am Monday morning. At last I have four of my very own doctors in front of me all at once. Now all eyes are on me. So many eyes. I tell them I no longer have any symptoms and please can I go home. They prod and poke me, then conclude I have a clean bill of health. They say I no longer need a scan. Finally, over sixty hours later, the powers that be say that I can go home.

It’s wonderful that our healthcare is free in the UK. I don’t begrudge that at all, especially as millions of people die in developing countries through a terrible lack of medical care or money to pay for treatment. I know we are very privileged to have the NHS. I think the staff work very hard. The new hospital building here is certainly impressive. But from my short observations the NHS needs more doctors throughout the week, better rotas and better communication between departments and shifts to handover patient records and manage decision making and administration more efficiently. Otherwise patients like me get lost in the system for a whole weekend, or longer in some cases.

Another patient could have had my bed instead of me this weekend. The money better spent to help somebody much more ill than I have been.

Now I just need to wait for my discharge letter. I think I’ll be staying for lunch.

Macaroni cheese.

I leave hospital at 2.42pm.