Visiting

THE HOSPITAL car park is full, of course, as are the surrounding streets - full to overflowing because of the road works they're doing around the place.

I drop My Good Lady off at the main entrance with her wheelchair and go off in search of a space.

The old Victorian hospital is a grim-looking place, both outside and within. They've tried to spruce it up of course, but no amount of public money can disguise the feeling you get that you're entering a cramped and forbidding institution.

I always shudder a little whenever I have to come here.

Mike isn't having too good a day it seems - they've just had to have the emergency crash cart out to the him: he's unable to breath properly because of the amount of phlegm on his chest. He's on antibiotics but they're having little effect because of his motor neurone. It's as if he's slowly choking on his own mucus. They are hoping to clear out his system in a day or two, but of course there's nothing to stop it from building up again.

The desperately sad part is that Mike remains mentally alert and aware that he's now wholly paralysed from the neck down. He can't so much as raise his hand to attract a nurse's attention, and because of the oxygen mask he's obliged to wear, he cannot call for help, either.

Still, we're hoping that the antibiotics might kick in soon and that he'll be well enough to go home - where his wife, Helen, can give him the full-time attention and care that he really needs.

And in the meantime, we'll continue visiting when we can to keep our friend's spirits up and to remind him that he's not forgotten by the gang in the Geriatrics' Corner of the Pub.