Poorly soldier

Hospitals are cold, empty, spooky places after a certain hour.

The boys and I waited in the silence until someone came along and told us hubby was ready to be taken home.

Hubby looked a bit ghostly as we led him away to the car.

He's perked up a bit now that his sore arm is propped up on numerous cushions and he's shovelling Lancashire hotpot in his cakehole. I wonder how long his convalescence will last. However long it is, I hope I have patience to match it.