Daily Life at New Street

Life at New Street follows a predictable pattern each day.

Before daylight each morning, from within the cocoon of my room and snug in my bed, I follow this pattern; a pattern of sounds which combine with activity.

Around six o’clock the morning bell-pressing gets under way.  If the staff, who might be in the kitchen preparing breakfast, are not smart about responding, the bell will be pressed repeatedly with an ever diminishing time gap between presses until the caller gets a response. There are mornings when the air is thick with the buzz of call bells.

The next part of the morning soundscape is the door-knock, as breakfast is delivered to the rooms. The first knock is the signal for me to clear the portable table and turn on the television. Within a space of less than 48 hours I have become a morning TV-watching addict; especially the programs which bring me the latest news and drama from all over the world in small grabs.  Plus whole lot of other rubbish.

After breakfast is dealt with I have my morning rest.  Everyone else who is not room-bound will be dressing for the day; when I hear people arriving in the dining room for morning tea I have to seriously consider dressing for the day.

As you can see, the day passes in a parade of mealtimes separated by the mundane.

Lunchtime is the big social event in my day; I sit down and the three ladies with whom I share a table start the guessing game of ‘What will be on the menu for lunch today?’ I am new to this game with no experience of past meals and my guesses are wild ones. I’m never right but the long-time residents with good memories – read Anna-Maria there – are often spot on.   

After lunch, if the weather is OK I go out for a short walk; back inside I might sit in the ‘reading room’ and glance through the papers.  The grumpy man will be in his permanent position in the corridor and Sharon, together with the owner of the small well-behaved dog and the dog, will be sitting on the couch near the door.  People are creatures of habit.

Before afternoon tea time I will be back in the snugness of my room, either resting or reading; my reading concentration, which was zilch in the hospital, is now gradually improving. I am re-reading Helene Hanff’s Underfoot in Show Business which is a highly entertaining read; it chronicles Helene’s time in New York City as a young woman, working a variety of jobs to supplement her income while she works on writing The Big Play which will be the hit of the century.  Her best friend Maxine, her sights set on a brilliant acting future, provides endless humour with her wit and creativity, especially with regard to getting into theatre performances for next to nothing. Helene Hanff is best known for her book 84, Charing Cross Road.  

As the day winds down, everybody who is able gathers in the dining room promptly at 5 pm for the final meal of the day. A small group of people move afterwards to the lounge at the front of the house to watch the evening news on the giant TV, the only place with reception for the national broadcaster. 

My evening meal is often a strange collection of what looks to be a cross between the left-overs and  a plate put together from a quick search though the cupboards; there is always a glass of fruit juice and if I’m lucky a bowl of soup. All this arrives around seven pm and little by little quiet falls as everyone settles down for the night.

I tear myself away from the television and turn off the light around nine pm; another uneventful day has passed on the road to recovery.