It's like entering different worlds. Parts of the hospital are very smart indeed and others are... well, like this. A small "holding tank" full of chairs, some occupied, some not and a "checking in" desk.

There's a theatre list behind the desk with some very bored looking nurses and equally bored looking patients all sitting round the walls. Now if the chairs had been arranged differently or even a small table here and there for putting your elbow on it would have been OK but this was not.

It was hot, airless, and high up with no view – well, rooftops full of felt and pigeon poo – and hardly any room to move. I checked in, sat down and tried to work out the system. It went like this. You sit there until called for your "medical" and then you sit there again until called for your operation.

What, it's only 10.30am? We are allowed nothing to eat or drink no bed to lie on beforehand and the toilet was in Ward 21A!!!!! I tried to think positively, it made sense not to occupy a bed beforehand, really, and we were only supposed to be day patients, but it would have been nice to settle in somewhere and make it "mine" to come back to for however short a stay and tiredness was creeping in now, too, so a nap would have been relaxing.

I realise my mind is raving and luxuries like this come with private medicine and I've never had that, so what I've never had I won't miss. A very large lady walks in and the only vacant seat is the one next to mine. I shift slightly to be polite and she lowers herself to the chair.

I know it wasn't her fault but the downdraft she created wafted my papers all over the floor and bearing in mind my "stabbed" breast – no-one else had one of those – I couldn't quickly drop to catch them so I decided to try to catch them as they fell from a standing position which was relatively successful and provided much amusement for the others but when I sat down again, the part of her which didn't quite fit on her seat, was on mine and I duly sat on her lap!

She yelped in surprise, I jumped up – ouch, that hurt – and her daughter who was carrying food, drink and a copy of The Sun gave me the kind of look usually reserved for lesser people.

My phone, which I had forgotten to switch off, trilled out loudly and I began a frantic scrabble to find it. A text from my best friend Hil – how was I, what's happening? I grin inanely and try my best to return the text before nurse tells me it must go. Oh God, this isn't going well.

Mrs Large Bottom opens her copy of the paper to Page 3 where there is the usual perkily-breasted, scantily-clad female with some impossibly pointy bosoms. As the daughter tucks into crisps and sandwich plus fizzy drink (I really think she should have been banned) I remark on the embonpoint of the scantily-clad girl and exclaim that they cannot possibly be real while pointing at the items. No reply. Ah, frying pan and fire comes to mind and I do not want to become like Mrs Boss Woman, so I zip it and try to relax.

After a year or two and just as I'm reaching boiling point heat-wise, I am called for my medical. Questions about allergies and procedures etc. Temp, let's take that again, blood pressure, let's take that again and even I can see that both are at a dangerously high level.

It's no wonder, this is not conducive for relaxing and now I am being asked to put on some very tight white stockings, a theatre gown, my dressing gown (are they trying to kill me off?) and my slippers – and then would I go back my chair?

I wonder vaguely if I am the cabaret turn as no-one else is being asked to do this, but nurse says it is because I am first on the list. Another leap in blood pressure – I've never been first in anything before and now it has to be this!

I return to the holding area where my half a chair has been wholly occupied by the drink-swigging, crisp-eating daughter. "Fort you weren't coming back," she says, spraying me lightly with crisp crumbs. I am just about to find another seat when Mr Pittam comes in.

He is concerned about the blood pressure – very concerned but does not want to postpone the op at this stage now I have been nuked and stabbed and explains that the anaesthetist will give me something for this and keep and eye on me.

I try to explain why I am like this and he is very sympathetic. I also explain that I am always sick after anaesthetics and that the anti-sick stuff also makes me sick. Mr.Pittam pats my hand - he obviously thinks I'm raving due to the blood pressure, tells me not to worry and that he will see me soon.

I wish I wasn't going to see him soon, I wish all this wasn't happening, I wish I'd brought Alan along, I wish...oh, what's the point, what will be, will be. I am dressed for an Arctic snowstorm, I feel as if I've been inflated by hot air, hungry, thirsty – very thirsty – and fed up.

It is now 12.45 and a nurse comes along to escort me to the anaesthetic room/ holding area. I and two other ladies are taken to a light and airy room with comfy chairs, a telly and its own toilet.

They are private patients, but so far we have all received exactly the same treatment, except they were not asked to put their kit on until now.

I knew it. Walking about in my pink, sheep-patterned fleecy dressing gown with my blue suede fleecy-lined slippers on has made me a marked woman. I am assessed once more, still no drop in blood pressure and once more I reiterate my penchant for being sick and how anti-sickness makes me even sicker.

The woman gives me the same look as Mr Pittam. I give up and return to the toilet, which I have made my home. Having paced the floor like a caged tiger and I'm sure absolutely hacking off everyone else in the room, I decide to use the toilet again and while I am ensconced hear my name being called.

"Mrs Ghandi, has anyone seen Mrs Ghandi"? A wild moment where I think I might just run for it - not with this needle in my breast – or I can say they must have the wrong person, or I've changed my mind or...stop it, stop it.

I rush out of the toilet, hands still wet, and present myself for the slaughter. A short walk into a room full of cupboards and weird-looking bits where an extremely cheerful lady throws me onto the trolley (mind my dagger) and grasps my hand firmly. I gabble, "Dr. Pittam says to remind you about X-rays and the nobble on the right breast and...nothing. It has all gone.

NEXT WEEK: What happens when Su comes round from the op

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