Soundtrack to this post.

When you are confined to a hospital bed, your world shrinks to the size of a room. The only connection you have to the outside is the window. It becomes your television, your cinema, and your clock.
I have spent a lot of time staring out of mine.
The foreground is dominated, as all hospitals are, by the car park. It is a constant ballet of arrivals and departures. You see the relief of people going home and the anxiety of people arriving. It is the most honest theatre in town.
Beyond the tarmac, the view gets more interesting. To the right, there is a sprawling, somewhat soulless new build estate. It stands in stark contrast to the three solid blocks of council flats rising up in the distance. It is a little slice of social history right there in the architecture.
Then there is the chimney.
It is a massive, grey concrete finger pointing at the sky. I have decided, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, that this is where they incinerate the amputated body parts. I am sure the hospital facilities manager would tell me it is just the boiler flue or part of the laundry system, but my version fits the mood better.
In the distance, I can see the tops of the Oldbar Hills. They are a nice reminder that the world is bigger than this ward, and that the weather is doing something other than recirculating through the air conditioning.
But the real highlight is the helipad.
Every so often, the air around the hospital changes. The noise builds, the downdraft hits, and the air ambulance comes in to land. It usually arrives from the Scottish Islands, bringing someone across the water for care they can’t get at home.

It is a dramatic disruption to the slow routine of the ward. For a few minutes, we all stop what we are doing, patients, nurses, cleaners, and watch the machine touch down. It is a reminder of the incredible logistics that keep this whole system running.
For now, I am just a spectator. But the view isn’t bad.