The curse of surgical stockings

The porter rolled me off the trolley and on to the bed, wished me a good day and departed. My previous neighbour in the two-bedded ward — a frail, aloof, slow-moving African man — was gone. In his place was a visibly vigorous man of about my age with a charismatic, masculine face reminiscent of Anthony Quinn’s Zorba the Greek, except he had no front teeth. The wiry grey hair was closely scissored and he wore a sportive white polo shirt and black jog pants. Even in repose he looked dynamic.

A nurse entered to take my readings. Now I must drink plenty of water, she said, to flush out the clots. When she’d gone, Anthony Quinn fixed his dark eyes on mine and spoke. (Later I learned that he was Algerian Arab. In spite of living for most of his life in Marseille, his French wasn’t much better than mine.