I know I'm stupid... just don't keep reminding me!

The moment I awoke, I knew I was due a good lunch today as Mrs Ex-TM was coming up to the hospital on the early morning choo-choo, laden with all manner of goodies and tempting little morsels and sweetmeats. And so it was with something of a cavalier, devil-may-care attitude that I tackled today's menu choices that accompanied the breakfast tray. Naturally I presumed that I would dine well and therefore wouldn't be all that hungry come suppertime. So I decided to select the very best of what the kitchen has to offer for your Saturday night amusement. I mean, who needs Strictly Come Dancing or X Factor when you can read Notes from a Hospital Bed? And have I got a treat for you tonight!

We start off with a regular on the menu: leek and chicken soup. Now, have you ever wondered why sales of paper shredders are rising even faster than bankers' bonuses? It's quite simple... the NHS is buying shredders up in bulk so they can go out and hunt down the oldest, mankiest, scrawniest chickens (or poultry of indeterminate provenance) which they then boil up for extended periods before feeding the carcasses through the serried ranks of shredders. This is then added to the leek (or leak, as I prefer to call it) soup to produce this culinary wonder. Not one identifiable piece of chicken remains, only shredded strips of fibres that might or could have been avian in origin from the preceding geological era.

Now we turn to the entrée. Oh look! This could be a pie. It has an identifiable crust (if you screw your eyes up and squint a bit), vegetables and a very healthy baked potato. What could be nicer on a chilly autumn evening, when the nights are drawing in and there is only the occasional hoot of an owl and the hum of the life-support machine in the next room to disturb one's peace? Unfortunately I knew something was wrong as soon as I clapped eyes on the large tuber. Although it felt hot and looked as if it had been in an oven, it was as hard as a lump of coal. I called the nurse back, using my bedside buzzer. "What's up, love?" she asked. "You forgot something for my potato," I replied. "Did I forget the butter again?" she asked. "No! A pair of safety goggles and a jackhammer. I can't eat that," I almost shrieked. "My dental insurance wouldn't cover the sort of damage that thing could cause. "Well just leave it and move on to the pie, dear," she clucked reassuringly.

You know when you buy a turkey for Christmas or Thanksgiving... it's not unusual to buy a bird that's larger than necessary and therefore slightly more tough and muscular. You use the succulent breast meat for the big day, save a bit left over for sandwiches, strip the legs and the rest of the brown meat for a turkey curry or maybe a cold dish of some sort; and finally, when every conceivable piece of meat has been picked off the carcass, you boil the thing up for stock. After a couple of hours of gentle bubbling on a low heat, you turn off the gas and allow the stock to cool. Later you haul the carcass out and then strain the stock through a sieve. But what do you do with those bits of tasteless, gristly and inedible pieces of meat left there in the sieve? That's right... you post it off in a Jiffy bag to the NHS so it can be turned into turkey and ham pie. It's called turkey and ham pie but in my experience most of the pigs destined to be turned into ham for the pie must have watched Chicken Run or The Great Escape. I've yet to see any ham in one of these pies. The crust is melange of wet flour, soaked with turkey gravy with the delightful texture of a damp carpet tile. What could be nicer?

Of course, no NHS entrée is complete without some wet and murdered vegetables. These seem to have soaked up more water than the whole of the Venetian lagoon. These special vegetables are impossible to find in any supermarket or restaurant. Perhaps the NHS has some collective farm and canning factory in Kyrgyzstan so it can corner the market in this most tasteless and indelicate side order from hell.

Finally we arrive at dessert... or pudding, sweet, pastry, afters or tart. Call it what you will, but the Peach Flan & Custard bears no resemblance to any flan I've ever seen. The only sign of peach was a semi ground fruit stone that nearly took out one of my fillings. The 'flan' was nestled lovingly in a watery and slightly green custard; and yet this dessert is something of a favourite on the ward... even with me!

Yes, I know. Shock, surprise, horror! But there's something about this odious little dessert that makes you want to finish it up even though it's disgusting. Like a guilty pleasure or a dirty little secret, it sits in its little sea of custard and winks saucily up at you like a cancan dancer, daring you to eat it. I'm ashamed to admit that, despite it not tasting of peach, and even though its texture resembled the orange slime car mechanics clean their greasy hands with, I almost devoured the entire dish... as you can see from the photo. I'm seriously worried that I've now become irreversibly institutionalised. Perhaps I shall never go home.