He sat there for a while, silently observing the room, trying to memorise every detail and match them with previous memories. The nurse, whoever it was, had left the door open and he could hear the everyday sounds of a hospital drifting through. A tannoy with a call for Doctor so-and-so; the clatter of a dropped bedpan and the heavy sigh of a cleaner with a mop bucket; the chatter of two nurses talking about television and dancing. At one point he thought he heard the rattle of a tea trolley and perked up considerably, marking its progress as it drew closer to his private room.
The walls were painted plain white. He was relieved they'd moved away from what was supposed to be a psychologically comforting two-tone strip , usually white over something sickly like diarrhoea brown of vomit green. His school has been painted like that. He could never understand the reasoning behind it other than the opportunity for multitudinous detentions for keying the paintwork. The room was quite pleasant, really. Apart from the usual hospital 'how to wash your hands' and 'have you got chlamydia?' posters, there was a rather pleasant reproduction of Wells Cathedral in the style of Samuel Palmer. He had the original sketch of it at the manor, though the painting itself was owned by the National Gallery. The sketch hunk in the second floor spare bedroom at the manor.
Yes. He lived at the manor, didn't he? Or was that part of the delusion the nurse had referred to. Where was his jacket?