It was cannula carnage at the hospital

I was silently mourning the death of Brigadier General Charles FitzClarence at First Ypres when a young male nurse entered the crowded waiting room and called out my name. I must look fairly decrepit because he offered an arm for me to lean on as he walked me up the aisle and into the CT scanner anteroom. Kind, I thought. He was a dark, solid-looking chap in his early twenties. His uniform was all white: white jacket, white T-shirt, white trousers, white Crocs.

He directed me to a chair beside a medical trolley and suggested I remove my jacket and fleece. Next, a female nurse with an unmistakable air of seniority loped up and asked me if I had an objection to having the cannula and contrasting agent fixed into my arm by her student – in other words, Mr White. None whatsoever, I said. She loped away, leaving us to it.