She shared a small ward with two other women, both of whom were recovering from their operations. The elderly woman in the next bed, Elizabeth told me, was chatty and amusing and never complained; the woman opposite could not have been more different. She delighted in complaint. It was no wonder, Lizzie told me, that her visitors curtailed their visits.

By chance I was to give a lecture to the post-graduate education students at Leeds University the day following my daughter's operation. My lecture was in the morning, visiting hours in the afternoon, but the very accommodating ward sister said I could call in during the morning before the doctor made her rounds. I duly arrived at the small ward straight from the lecture, carrying my notes on a clipboard. I was dressed formally in grey suit, maroon waistcoat with my father's watch chain dangling across my stomach, white shirt, college tie and sporting a pair of half-moon, gold-rimmed spectacles. I guess I looked every inch the specialist as I entered the ward. The university had produced a large lapel badge for me on which the name Dr Gervase Phinn was emblazoned in bold black capitals and which I still wore.

I pulled the screens half around my daughter's bed for some privacy and spent a good 10 minutes in conversation. I then kissed her goodbye, removed the screens and, on my way out, exchanged a few words with the elderly woman in the next bed.

"And how are you feeling?" I asked her.

"Mustn't grumble," she replied.

"A replacement hip, I hear," I said. "Is it very painful?" "Oh not that bad," she said, and then added pointedly for the eavesdropper opposite, "and everyone here has been wonderful."

As I headed for the door, the woman in the opposite bed called after me: "Excuse me. Can I have a word?"

"Yes, of course," I replied, approaching her.

"I've not seen anyone this morning." She pursed her lips as if sucking a lemon.

"Pardon?"

"I said I've not been seen by anyone, doctor." She had obviously caught sight of the badge. Before I could enlighten her as to my position in the world,
she continued. "I might as well be invisible, doctor, for all the attention I get."

"Are you not feeling too well?" I enquired solicitously.

"No, not really." "And are you regular?" I asked mischievously.

"Yes, I'm all right in that department."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear it," I said, smiling warmly. I turned to go. "Is that it?" she demanded. "Aren't you going to examine me?" she asked sharply.

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Well, you are a doctor, aren't you?" she asked. "Yes indeed," I replied, "but I'm a doctor of letters, not of medicine. Good morning." I left an acutely embarrassed daughter, a chuckling elderly patient with a replaced hip and the woman in question open-mouthed and, for once in her life, lost for words.