I stand in the queue for food, a healthy aroma wafting towards me. Hospital food reminds me of school dinners. It is what I imagine prison food tastes and looks like too - a mixture of stodge, energy, rules and regimentation. Behind me a tall slim black man is laughing. He isnt talking to anyone else. While his laughter is only intermittent, it seems a little inappropriate and I imagine that its also a little uncontrollable. I know the doctors here match appetite with well-being, but I could eat a horse right now. Given the various supermarket processed meat scandals of the last few years, I reckon I will do so at some stage too, if I havent already. The lady serving the food is a minuscule Chinese woman with the gruff laconism of an Old Testament hermit. What you want? The patient in front of me matches her terseness and, in poker terms, raises her: Fish. Apple. Soup? The patient wins this match by throwing verbal communication away altogether and merely shakes his head to indicate a no. He shuffles away wordlessly with his food, staring at his apple with Newtonian wonder. I am reminded, not for the first time this month, of the mathematician Paul Dirac. He was notoriously concise with his words and his colleagues believed that he was continually attempting to convey meaning with the most efficient (ie brief) use of language. I imagine he wasnt great at parties. I edge forward. What you want? What is it about serving food to others that makes us so grumpy? Mmmmm. Smells good. What have we got today? The little Chinese lady eyes me suspiciously as if it is a trick question. Fish. Cottage pie. Moussaka. She pronounces the last two syllables so emphatically that, if I hadnt tasted it before, I would assume it to be a traditional Chinese or Japanese delicacy. What do you recommend? They all smell good. As indeed they do. The dinner ladys eyes narrow a little and become steely. I can see her thoughts clear as a tropical sea: is this guy taking the piss? I smile at her as warmly as I can. Im not putting this on. Im genuinely tickled by her apparent misanthropy. Most of all, Im tickled to be alive and eating at all. I hold her cautious stare and smile once more. She appears to warm a bit. Fish is nice, she says at last. Well, Ill have that please. And a strawberry yoghurt. She tips the contents of a tinfoil packet onto my plate like a bin lorry dumping its contents into a landfill site. Its an apt visual simile. The fish does indeed smell good, but it looks extremely unappetising. I dont care. I remember last Wednesday, last Thursday, last Friday. I remember the tube through my nose and the drip in my arm. I remember the sweet aroma of other patients food, enviously watching them eat their stodgy fare and swearing not to take simple food for granted again. Im going to enjoy this, no matter what it looks like. I thank the little dinner lady and smile warmly at her again. Aha! Was that a brief upturn at the corners of her mouth? I reckon if I can crack this little nut, I can crack the rest.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Jul 2014 10:39:10 +0000
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