The more observant among you will have remarked on a different name gracing the top of the column I normally write on a Monday.

That is not, I hasten to add, because I have been living it up in some exotic holiday location but as a result of a close encounter with the National Health Service, whose unwilling guest I have been for the last two-and-a-half weeks.

Personally, I blame our revered editor, Simon Bradshaw, for my misfortune, since he had the cheek to put me on table 13 for the delightful evening party for the Local Heroes.

I'm still trying to decide if he was trying to tell me something and if so, what.

But someone has been ill-wishing me, since not only was I hors de combat, but my daughter was out for the count with a leg broken in two places as a result of being attacked by a bad tempered golf umbrella which laid her low as she and her husband packed their car to come home after a lovely holiday on Exmoor.

She totally upstaged me by being airlifted to hospital by helicopter, while all I could manage was two gorgeous (and, thankfully, very hefty) ambulance men who stood up to an early morning weightlifting session with amazing fortitude.

And they didn't even use the siren as they transported their precious cargo to the Sussex county Hospital - spoilsports!

But I have to say whatever the shortcomings of the NHS, and I would not dispute there are a few, on the whole when you really need help, they can deliver the goods. I have had an interesting two-and-a-half weeks, with a few laughs along the way.

Once I had been settled down in a corner bed, I had a chance to observe my co-sufferers who all looked fine in the cold light of day but, as I was to discover, some of them changed when the moon rose.

There was a dear, sweet little soul in the corner bed opposite me who kept on intoning what sounded like some sort of magic runes which, by the 965th repetition, began to sound like some medieval curse on all our houses, whereas I am sure she would not have recognised a swear word if she had met one in the dark.

She was followed in short order by another will o' the wisp who looked as though butter wouldn't melt in her rosebud mouth.

This lady kept leaping out of her bed as soon as the nurses' backs were turned so they put up the restraining bars which run right along the sides of the beds and we all settled down with a collective sigh for what we hoped would be a peaceful night.

Our little friend had other ideas. As soon as the nurses moved on to pastures new there was a rustle in the undergrowth and there she was, as nimble as a greyhound, totally ignoring the raised bed rails, leaping over the end of the bed and going off down the ward at the speed of light, caroming off the other beds as she made for freedom.

Alas, in the end, all the aces were in the nurses' hands and our cabaret came to an abrupt halt as she was finally corralled.

I had a close up and personal encounter with another lady who, emboldened by her intake of someone else's blood which had clearly been augmented with something fairly strong, insisted I was in her bed and would I please move over and let her in.

By the time the nurse managed to persuade her that I was not a cuckoo in her nest, I was almost ready to yield to a valiant fighter, but in the end I didn't feel able to accommodate all her tubes and wires.

One thing is for sure in hospital, life is never dull.

The NHS is like the curate's egg, good in parts, but I must say the staff and the general attitude to the patients would be hard to fault and I am more than grateful for the treatment I received.

But I'll get Simon Bradshaw for that table 13!