Coronation 1953

In 1953 I was taken away and imprisoned in a sanatorium in the welsh mountains to recover from tuberculosis. I was de-loused, hair cut and scrubbed and put in a glass walled cell euphemistically called an isolation ward in case, presumably, I had any other infectious diseases. I had a month in there. Then spent the eight following months on one of the main male wards. I was not sent to the children's ward and therefore did not suffer the crying nights.

While I was there we were all assembled in serried rows of beds in a large hall to watch, on some sort of contraption: I think it was an epidiascope, the coronation of the Queen. I can vividly remember being pushed down the corridor at breakneck speed in my bed, shared with two other inmates.  My bed had big wheels, about eight inches in diameter and was able to be pushed at speed. A sort invalid chariot race ensued, totally against the rules but who cared. The last person in my bed had died. Children were  brutally honest about that sort of thing. This race occurred on film nights, concerts and any other mass hospital entertainment.

Looking back along the corridor of history, I can't say I was particularly gripped by the film or the event. I was however, gripped by the chariot race. Such is youf.

We did have a special supper of milky coffee and dripping toast  doled out by the amazing Sister  King, just before lights out. That I do remember.

JL June 2nd 11:46