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My darling,
It is visiting hour so I thought I would write, or start to write, a letter. I have at last, stop press, been able to pass a motion. Such a palaver: I must not go to the lavatory; as a special favour I need not use the bed pan, but can have the commode. Why? Because I am so fragile and must not be allowed the slightest exertion. If it is – says probationer but it may be a nurse – what they think it is, I shall have to be cared for in hospital for 5–6 weeks: if it is not, then as far as I could make out, it would be as bad only different. I felt like picking up the pair of them, one in each hand, and putting them both down firmly on the pot. Finally I was not to wipe my bottom but one of them did, or perhaps they both had a turn. I suspect that this thrill was the ultimate aim of a somewhat synthetic panic. There is a fat old woman visitor over the way who has been bursting into the most rich, fruity, bawdy explosions of belly-laugh I have heard for a long time. Perhaps she saw me on the pot. Supper was egg on spinach with some very pale chips: but it tasted quite good. I waved tapioca and treacle away.
The ECG chap showed up and did his stuff. He said it was much the same as this morning and showed nothing particular.2 The hospital examination routine is very thorough but I suspect it is always a bit rigid. I, who strongly suspect more attention needs to be paid to my digestive upset and old jaundice, noticed that no one asked me about it but I had to draw attention by mentioning the absence of motion. Similarly it was sister who noticed that the graze on my cheek had not been washed as it should have been. But my analytic work convinces me that it takes a long time before people are able to bear a realistic contact with what other people are, rather than with some artefact with which they are familiar.