The ward itself had changed vastly since his first entry to the old Virtue Ward in the now demolished building as its consultant surgeon. In those orderly days, it contained two straight well-disciplined lines of patients, drilled by the ward sister, it seemed to Sir Lancelot, to breathe in unison. The rebuilt hospital was all nooks and crannies, patients in twos and threes all over the place. Even men mixed up with women, which would have made the old ward sisters stare and even resign. But Sir Lancelot supposed the mingling was a convenience to his surgical colleague upstairs, who specialized in sex-change operations, and where you could never tell if his wards were male, female or undecided. But in any modern hospital ward, Sir Lancelot reflected as he marched along, the surroundings made little difference. The patients spent their time staring at television, except the ones who were unconscious. The surgeon progressed with something of his old retinue, like an Emperor fallen on seedy times who must cut down the ceremonial.
