I am sure you have a reason for my temperature climbing to 37.5 earlier this evening and staying there, but, I beg of you, please go down. I’m not asking for much, ideally, I want you to be 36.6 because that is what you usually always are, but, for tomorrow, I will accept 37.0. Go down. Just go down. I know you are worried about rejoining the real, non air conditioned British world, but it’s okay. Mamma Jones has fans. She also has food, and although you do not want a lot of it at the moment, it is of a much better quality than the stuff you can get in here. It’s not orange nor white for a start, and the ingredients have to be sought from a shop much larger than your local Londis. Sure, they have medicine in here, and people trained in it, but you would be far more comfortable sleeping on a bed that is not protected against incontinence. It’s true. Less sweat. You would also greatly benefit from having a full night’s sleep, absent from observation checks and the alarm clock of nurses, contracted food delivery people and tactless cleaners.
We are supposed to be going home tomorrow and I will not let you ruin it. If you do, we are done. You are dumped. You gave me myeloma. You are not going to take my early release away from me.
So, I think you’ll agree that we would both be better off at home. You know what you need to do… Go down. Just go down.