A&E

Is where I spent the majority of tonight - waiting, for the most part - with my housemate, who we feared had appendicitis.

After a good hour waiting in the Walk-In Clinic she was seen by a doctor who then referred her to A&E to have more tests. After another hour she was whisked away by a burly nurse and I was confined to the taupe waiting room, with nothing but "I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here" for company. Well, and an old chap who, by this point, I'd befriended through mutual disapproval of Alicia Keys' outfit on X Factor which - we decided - "left little to the imagination."

Minutes past. No sign of cramp-riddled housemate.

Meanwhile, all the flotsam and jetsam from the streets of Newcastle teemed in with maladies aplenty, and huddled round the stark television screen. Last to arrive were two gentlemen - who, I can only assume, hadn't been under a solid roof for the best part of a decade - closely accompanied by a most pungent aroma of various bodily functions.

And of course, with the night already having turned out a stunner, the only remaining seat was next to me. "Oh, huzzah", thought I.

The next hour fair ticked by, with the hacking cough emitted from my bench-fellow shaking the very foundations of my existence, and the healthy snores and grunts emanating from his friend (who, from what I could see, was suffering from nothing more than a cut finger) after having promptly fallen asleep after his arrival.

Eventually, housemate emerged, brandishing what were apparently essentially cranberry-tablets, triumphant after the care and bedside manner of a "cute doctor" with tortoise-shell glasses.

That went down a treat, I can tell you.