Less than 24 hours before my hospital debut, the show was cancelled.

It wasn’t a question of no bed being available or that my appointment with the surgeon’s knife was less urgent than those of others. It was to do with the said surgeon not being convinced he needed to wield weaponry, and wanted more tests to make sure – a conclusion reached after seeing my medical notes for the first time only hours before.

Over the previous weeks, there had been an element of anxiety at this end.

I tried to be a brave little soldier, but hospitals are where I visit the sick, perfectly happy to forego the starring role.

The cancellation did nothing to steady the nerves.

On top of this, others had put themselves out to help and ‘get well soon’ cards had been dropping on the doormat. Not coming under starter’s orders was darned embarrassing.

Asked why he had left it so late to check the paper work, it seems he wasn’t aware of my existence – let alone the problem – until my name appeared on a list handed to him that morning.

I will be eternally grateful for his professionalism and caution, but surely such seat-of-pants planning doesn’t give surgeons a chance, leaving them open to unfair criticism.

You’d think that with all those name-plated administrators and clerks looking important while knocking around the Oxford Radcliffe hospitals, someone could give their colleagues at the sharp end better notice of whom they were to meet in the operating theatre, and why.

Or perhaps I was just another casualty of a hard-pressed hospital trying to comply with the Government’s ridiculous target strategy.

****

The snow is snowing, the wind is blowing, but I can weather the storm. What do I care how much it may storm? I’ve got my love to keep me warm.

This Irving Berlin song came to mind as I battened down the hatches on Monday, turned up the central heating, and peered out on a white world.

But I wasn’t thinking of myself, but a couple of chubby pigeons perched on the garden fence.

This is a family newspaper, so I won’t describe what was happening, but leave it to imagination, while retaining the music theme with a favourite song from Annie Get Your Gun, – ‘Doin’ What Comes Nat’rally’.

The snow was being blown horizontally; keeping hold on the swaying fence called for balancing skills and avian determination. I turned away, respecting their privacy.

Ten minutes later I looked out once more, only to find the birds still engrossed in their feather-fluttering activity. Admiration for their stamina grew by the second.

It was almost an hour before I looked out again. The birds were still on the fence, but now they snuggled side by side like turtledoves beneath an overhanging, but leafless tree.

They had their love to keep them warm.

****

Five-year-old Stuart was enjoying a rare bus trip from Pear Tree park-and-ride to the city centre with Gran and Pops – his names for his doting great-grandparents.

Sunny hardly covered his chirpy personality and he delighted other passengers who were happy to help keep him amused.

“Why aren’t you at school?” asked one elderly woman.

“I’ve got mumps, “ he proudly announced.

I’ve rarely seen people of any vintage move quite so quickly.

****

Finally, it is 57 years today since a pretty young princess climbed a tree and came down a queen – and she’s played a blinder ever since. God bless you – and thanks, Ma’am!

You can write to me at the Oxford Mail, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0EJ