The antiseptic corridors of perception

But­ter­flies. Far too much going on. Too many things to think about, which means that I end up feel­ing slightly dis­con­nec­ted from all of it. Con­fused, upset, happy, exhausted. Dis­be­lief, mainly. Is this really happening?

Have you ever noticed that insti­tu­tional build­ings face a huge uphill struggle to be wel­com­ing, no mat­ter how hard they try to soften their hard edges? Unem­ploy­ment bene­fit offices, tax offices, doc­tors’ sur­ger­ies, banks — they can incor­por­ate all the pas­tel col­ours and soft fur­nish­ings they like, but they still rank as some of the most unpleas­ant places in which to pass even a few minutes of your life.

Hos­pit­als, how­ever, win top hon­ours every time. They’re always going to be cold, anti­sep­tic, unwel­com­ing and with that strange linger­ing Dettol odour about them. And the cor­ridors — oh, the cor­ridors. A hos­pital cor­ridor is simply the most des­pair­ing place on Earth (after Steven­age, possibly).

Earlier today, I spent a few hours at a cent­ral Lon­don hos­pital (no names, natch) that has really tried hard to make itself bright, warm, com­fort­able and appeal­ing. The areas around the main recep­tion could double for a hotel, for heaven’s sake. You can order from a bewil­der­ing array of frothy cof­fees, and then drink your cap­pu­cino while lux­uri­at­ing in a huge arm­chair. Yet I still get that feel­ing of dread, a slightly sick sen­sa­tion in the pit of my stom­ach, as I enter through the smoothly slid­ing doors. I think that the first hos­pital you exper­i­ence as a child is the one that stays with you for the rest of your life — and Mus­grove Park Hos­pital in Taunton, with its dark grey maze of cor­ridors, is going to be imprin­ted on my memory forever.

Also — well, I can’t help myself. I always feel like the world’s worst hos­pital vis­itor: “Can I pour you a glass of water? Who else is in this ward, then? What’s the food like? You’ve got a nice view, haven’t you? Can I buff up your pil­lows? Can I get you a magazine from the shop?”

Shut up. Just shut up, you prat­tling fool.