I waited. And waited. All around me, other patients were waiting too, many of them moaning in pain. There is no privacy in A&E, so I became familiar with the minutiae of everyone’s symptoms, even details of their intimate bowel habits and sexual issues. One patient was, I learned, a frequent flier, bounced back and forth between home and SDEC every few weeks, never receiving adequate treatment. At two-hour intervals, a nurse pulled back my curtain to take my blood pressure – pointlessly, given it was normal – which felt like a box-ticking exercise, and which made sleep an impossibility.

‘We know it’s not healthy’

At 6pm, I went back to the desk to ask whether I might have some food and a jug of water. I was given a paper bag containing a tuna mayonnaise sandwich on white bread, with a packet of salt and vinegar crisps and a solitary apple – the least nutritious meal imaginable. Later that evening, the same cold meal was offered again, this time with the option of egg mayonnaise, plain cheese or chicken and sweetcorn, and an easy peeler in place of the apple. I think more crisps – ultra-processed, with a high salt and fat content – were eaten in A&E that night than at any child’s party. Who in the NHS decided this was a good idea? The nurses agreed the food situation was appalling, that sick patients might benefit from a hot and nutritious meal, but what could they do? “It’s all that’s available in A&E,” they told me. “We know it’s not healthy.”

The old man opposite was left in a chair for hours without food, water or even a blanket, until I took it upon myself to fetch some for him. He had actually been discharged but he couldn’t go home because his transport hadn’t turned up, and his home carers had left. This meant he had to spend the entire night in A&E, bed-blocking, until new transport could be ordered in the morning.

At eight, my heart sank as I realised the day shift had now ended, and a new medical team had come on board. I still hadn’t been examined. The consultant who’d first said he wanted to see me was presumably now at home, eating dinner with his family. “You’ll be here all night now,” another patient warned me. “Nobody will come.”

Now more frustrated than anxious about my symptoms, I made a nuisance of myself at the nurses’ desk, acutely aware that other sicker or less mobile people couldn’t. “You’re next on the list to be seen,” they promised. “But there’s only one doctor here to cover 21 patients.” It appears that “next on the list” is a flexible term, because by the time a doctor finally came to examine me, another five hours had passed and it was 1am.

At 3am, I was taken for a CT scan of my brain. At 4am, a nurse handed me a glass of soluble aspirin and told me to drink it. The doctor said I was to be referred to the TIA clinic for further tests on Friday, as an outpatient. Finally, at 4.30am, I was discharged alone into the night. I had been at A&E for more than 16 very long hours and I was cold, hungry and exhausted. I took an Uber home.

Forgotten tests

But the saga doesn’t end there. When I woke up, I found I had two missed calls from the hospital. That evening, as I was climbing into bed, the doctor I’d seen in A&E rang me to say there had been a cock-up the night before. They had forgotten to do an ECG and some important blood tests. Could I please return to A&E immediately? Unable to face another endless night waiting there, I refused. Instead, I said I’d go back first thing on Thursday morning. This time, there was only a three-hour wait to see a doctor.

Following what amounted to a full MOT in A&E and outpatients – blood tests, ECG, a CT, MRI and neck duplex scan – it turned out that, very fortunately, I didn’t have a TIA, although they still don’t know what was wrong with me. I’m now waiting to see my neurologist. Thankfully, my facial symptoms have largely resolved.