Piddle, Poo & Spit: one woman's experiences of hospital in three words

OK, so there's a bit more to it than that.

Home from hospital at last! Two days later than initially intended due to unforeseen difficulties associated with the removal of my stitches. More later.

I am sporting the most amazing bruise I have ever seen, or in fact many on the ward had ever seen either. It is the size and shape of a pair of Bridget Jones knickers. Bridget Jones big knickers at that. Purple, black, blue, green and yellow knickers. It goes round behind my hipbones and nearly up to my navel. People were staring yesterday as I left the hospital in a pair of khaki hipster trousers. You could tell they didn't know where the trousers stopped and the skin began.

The story of the stitches would be funny if it wasn't so painful. Basically the stitches refused to come out, and at one stage there were two nurses and a doctor pulling at the 'thread', a bit like a scene from 'The Enormous Turnip', when eventually it just snapped. They immediately started to prep me for further surgery to go in, locate the stitch (and whatever was blocking it's removal) remove them and sew me up again in a more traditional manner. Luckily, I had a last minute reprieve from 2am surgery, but have to go back to hospital in a fortnight for further 'contemplation'.

Discharge from hospital is a serious issue. They fill in copious forms and ask millions of questions, all thanks to litigation. During this process thay asked me twice did I have any needles in me. On the second occasion I couldn't resist and replied 'no, just the thread.'