Don't do it Martha

Hospital food. I've had four days to assess the quality of what's on the plate at Osborne Park and, sisters, frankly it doesn't rock. Brekkies are uncooked, which is probably just as well. It doesn't matter what boxes I tick, I always get cornflakes. It's hard to bugger up cereal, so that's okay. But I do wish they'd toast the bread, which flops on the plate all flaccid and unbecoming. Lunch is sandwiches and they're fine. Dinner is interesting. Usually there are brussels sprouts, plus an innocuous gravy element. One day it was roast lamb, another a pastry-covered meatloaf. The mash is okay. The tea is dreadful. The staff are lovely. Morning and afternoon teas are pretty good because you either get some Arnotts crackers with Kraft cheese in a blister pack or a home-madeish cake. We had muffins yesterday. Whoopee. When I get out I'm going to cook a rare sirloin steak all smothered in garlic and black pepper, washed down with a big, thin-rimmed glass of something burgundian. Bring it on.