AS I write this column, I’ve been frantically making sandwiches for Dad’s 86th birthday. It’s the end of a very stressful week.

On Tuesday, his GP called urgently, telling me to take him to hospital immediately. They’d received some test results indicating a serious health decline.

I asked how urgent, and she said within the next half hour. Panic set in: new pyjamas, a wash bag, slippers, and so on. We arrived at Daisy Hill within half an hour and, to our relief, the GP had emailed ahead. The relief was short-lived.

We waited and waited, but the accident and emergency department was packed. It was only Tuesday evening, and no doctor was available. We didn’t see a doctor until 24 hours later.

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Dad was given an upright chair to sit on for 22 hours with a drip attached to his arm. Eventually, he was upgraded to a reclining chair.

He never closed his eyes once or even complained despite the obvious discomfort. He even joked that everyone in the waiting room would have a square ass the next day.

People of his generation are quite stoic about such things, and Dad, having previously had his prostate removed and a serious sarcoma dug out from his skull, is incredibly grateful to the staff at Daisy Hill, Craigavon, and the Ulster Hospital.

He has an innate respect for his doctors, nurses, ancillary staff and porters. Hospitals are, in a way, a family.

Any ignorant bigots believing there........

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