As I am an enthusiastic hypochondriac, I had, a few years ago, worn to the very bone the local physicians and their catalogues of diagnoses. So, armed, with brand-new symptoms, I went to another city which has a famous clinic, and entered its hospital for tests. I wasn’t ill; I was simply curious to know what I had this time and if my own diagnosis would pay off to the discomfiture of my home doctors who had declared I was remarkably healthy.
The bed in my hospital room was comfortable and I had several interesting books to read, and so I prepared myself for a happy night of quiet entertainment. At midnight, hot on the trail of the murderer in a murder mystery, I heard the room door open and a youngish nurse, all arch tiptoeing, head-tiltings and enormous white teeth, invaded my room. Oh, darling, why wasn’t I asleep? Did I hurt? Could she get me anything? Was I comfy? I looked a little, little tired . . .
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