Cheap Frills

Every time I come into hospital they find some new way of humiliating me; whether it's medical students whose excitement rises in direct proportion to my sickness, or toilets with emergency cords instead of light pulls. However today they excel themselves. When I arrive they make me change into one of those hospital gowns. Now, for a start, why do they even call them gowns? A gown is a long flowing dress worn to a ball, an exquisitely tailored little black number designed to knock the socks off even sandal wearers. Hospital gowns however make you look like a chicken in a curtain, a llama in a marquee; if they gave you some pegs you could set up camp in one. Wearing nothing but clingfilm and a cape would be more attractive. Anyway, I didn't have a choice, so once I'd changed into this fashion monstrosity I'm then told to take off my boxer shorts. Now, I've been here before and this has never happened. I always keep them on, I whimper. Oh no! Not today! Apparently 'the powers that be' have decided that my pants may interfere catastrophically with the drugs they'll soon be administering. That's right, my PANTS!!! How exactly are my undergarments going to prevent a drug capable of knocking out a horse from taking effect? I suspect another motive. What exactly is going on when they turn out my lights? Is the surgeon using me as a glorified medical hand puppet while I'm asleep? Dancing and prancing me around like some pink Pinnochio, naked as the day I was born, just for the amusement of the student nurses? Hang on... Maybe that's why they call it 'going into theatre'?