There is an old country saying that "The best fertiliser is the master's footsteps".

What this means, of course, is that when the person ostensibly in charge is regularly on view, things tend to go according to plan.

It is a point of view which might well be taken on board in some of the hospitals about which we so often hear horror stories these days. Tales of dirty wards, poor hygiene, careless habits regarding hand washing and so on abound and a generous exchange of infections (I'll give you mine if you'll give me yours) seems to be the order of the day in a number of cases.

I readily accept there are many hospitals where these things do not occur and where standards are uniformly high but the fact that MRSA infections, for example, are so often reported these days is not conducive to an atmosphere of trust in the NHS.

It is often quite difficult to find out who is responsible for running certain aspects of the treatment being given to your relative and to get to talk to a doctor can be like climbing Mount Everest.

Like many of the Third Age, I can recall the days of the matron, whose word was law and whose standards were terrifyingly high. Her daily visit to every ward in her hospital was a pilgrimage of perfection and every nurse knew exactly what to expect if they fell below that perfection.

Nothing escaped her eagle eye or her poking finger. One matron, whose name was a byword for cleanliness, would often produce a white glove from her capacious pocket and would run her gloved white finger over the window sill, a bedside locker or the tiles in the sluice room. Woe betide the junior nurse whose job it was to clean those areas daily if they were found wanting in shining perfection.

Nurses were required to have their hair properly controlled and out of sight under their caps and no jewellery of any kind was allowed. During the war, even wedding rings were worn on a chain round the neck and out of sight during duty hours.

It was strictly forbidden to wear uniform out of doors except closely covered by your cape on the way to the nurses' home, a few yards away from the main hospital. Those who lived out, a wartime development, had to wear civilian clothes to and from work and change when they went on duty. That way uniforms were kept as clean and free from outside infection as possible.

When you think of all the bombing, the houses being knocked flat, the dust and the dirt which covered the casualties as they were brought into hospital after an air raid, it is amazing anyone escaped some secondary infections. There were no antibiotics then to save the day - it was all down to nursing standards and basic cleanliness.

When a patient was discharged, the mattress, bed frame and the locker were "carbolised" - washed thoroughly with a disinfectant. No spit and a lick but a proper scrub down, while the blankets went to be "stoved", that is baked in a huge oven. The nurses doing this job wore gowns which were then put in the laundry basket. No doubt these days all that would be regarded as overkill but in view of the infections, which seem to plague our wards, it may be that we shall have to think seriously about some modern form of doing these things.

I am sure someone will tell me these precautions are taken but there is a fair weight of evidence which tells us there is a break in the chain somewhere. There has been talk about bringing matrons back but if they do return, they must be given powers to make things happen. They must not be figureheads which make the place look good. Maybe matron should be encouraged to spread a little fertiliser around if it means the wards would be sparkling clean after her visit.

If matron puts the fear of God into them, at least we could give the germs a good run for their money!