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Hospital food.
I have likely met God, but was too caught up in an otherworldly cup of hospital coffee at stupid-o’clock in the morning.
The Good Lord might have tried a second time to get my attention, taken the form of a kindly steward or spelled out a message in flickering lights – but I am taking five minutes luxuriating in the salty stretch of a halloumi focaccia. He might have given up by the time I was scrabbling around in the Werther’s.
Myself and hospitals have a strained relationship. I respect them immensely, and have had more positive experiences within them than any number of harrowing circumstances outside… but regardless, all paths lead to that too-bright room with its grand altar of beeping apparatus.
To cope with this, my brain has stretched these experiences into one long white corridor. It is a clean, gleaming rope twisting around my memories like taffy on the puller. I do not remember faces. But I remember food.
In one of my earliest memories, I am happily chomping down on smiley faces. I’m especially pleased because I asked for them — and what four-year-old gets asked what they want to eat, in bed, while watching Cartoon Network with their Mum?
Hospital is a grand affair. I have vanilla ice-cream for dessert.
