Blog: So the world turns and the seasons change, empires rise and fall. And through it all, here I am, still in hospital . . .

Call me melodramatic, but by the time one knows all the medical staff by name, and the porters and the cleaners, and the menu back to front, it really is time to be getting home.

I even get a cheery “hello” from the hated parking attendant lately, rather than an argument over whether I deserve my latest parking ticket or not. That’s just unnatural.

I may have been put out to grass, but I can hardly accuse Britain of letting the green stuff grow under its feet while I’ve been away.

Not that I’ve had chance to properly digest much of it, because while you lot were scoffing party food and popping the bubbly, “oohing” over the soon-to-be-married Miss Middleton’s dress (and “aahing” over her sister’s soon-to-be-famous behind) I was pulling on my paper knickers and surgical gown yet again, a one-woman-NHS-deficit preparing for yet more budget-busting surgery on my troublesome foot.

But it was all going so well! I hear you groan. Somebody fetch the violins, then, while I tell my sorry tale, because previously, things were looking up for me.

My problem foot was healing, the antibiotics were working and docs were confident enough to send me home from hospital where I managed a few blissful, golden weeks, chillaxing in the garden – far from hospitals, medical dramas and doctors with difficult choices.

Not far enough though, apparently, and it came as no surprise to find myself back on the ward, fighting infection yet again, just in time to miss the wedding of the century.

So I missed “The Dress” and “The Kiss”, and just had time to reflect on the vagaries of fate before succumbing to the latest anaesthetic – namely why destiny had me waiting to take another turn on the operating table while the future princess was waiting to take her place at the altar beside her own real-life Prince Charming.

I guess that’s just the way the cookie crumbles – or in this case, the way the caviar tumbles . . . unless you believe in karma, in which case I must have done something truly terrible in this life, or the last, that I’m being punished for.

Well I’m surely not that bad – honest. I can think of someone who’d really benefit from a bit of karmic intervention, though, and that’s the late Mr bin Laden.

If my problems really are punishment from the gods, you wait until they catch up with you, fella.

Something tells me that 70 dark-eyed virgins will be off the menu in paradise tonight.