Lying on my bed in Moissac's "cottage" hospital attached to three separate drips, I was having the 15 minutes of peace granted before each bathroom crawl.

It was visiting hour and the burble of voices coming from each room - an echoing blend of male and female southern French accents - floated to the corridor.

Dopily, I concluded that however decent one may be in another language, tuning into such a stream is impossible. Indeed, some words even sounded just like English. When I heard "Cheddar cheese and biscuits" ring out as clear as a bell, though, I accepted I was probably delirious, yet another symptom of my severe dehydration.

Seconds later it was: "Well, I can't get out of this bloody bed, can I?"

I jerked to life or, rather, twitched an eyelid, which was all I could manage. Then the practicalities of life with chronic, bacterial gastroenteritis took over and it was later in the day before I discovered it was indeed English I was hearing.

Two rooms down was a man who, despite years in France, did not speak, or chose not to speak, the language. His flustered wife, who did, was the butt of his frustration on her visits and obviously she had failed to bring him his panacea.

Poor man. God knows being hospitalised is frightening enough without the added horror of total incomprehension of all around you. Imagine. No means of knowing the whats and the whys, the sudden rush of attention by doctor and nurses. No words to seek comfort and reassurance. No words to describe the many definitions of pain, the fears that surface in the sleepless nights. No wonder some returnees admit part of the leaving is to die "in English".

I had been rushed in to Urgences (A&E) after a week denying that my stomach bug could be something more. Living alone has many benefits but the main drawback if, like me, you're not really a grown-up, is that there are no checks and balances. There is nobody to see the changes that signal problems; nobody to point out that being lashed to a lavatory for seven days without food and with little water is not the way to go. In the wider scale of things, there is nobody to nag and make you face up to fact that man/woman cannot live just on fags, toast, chocolate, crisps, wine and oven chips.

In some ways my life in France has been a bit like leaving a seven-year-old home alone to run riot. Thank God, as I fervently say so often here, for good friends. J's voice cut through my self-pitying inertia: "Enough. Call the doctor now or we will."

She is a woman you do not disobey and so it came to pass that, less than two hours later, my racing heart was wired to a machine, drips were being stuffed into my veins, blood was taken and doctors came to peer at this mad woman who had suffered this for so long.

"You are a prune," said the doctor as he told me I was massively dehydrated. I told him that was me normally, you know, thanks to the sun. He didn't laugh.

And so for six days I was plumped, scanned, probed, bled, tested and analysed. Turning my face to the wall was no longer an option.

Just two weeks ago I wrote that I had no knowledge of being a patient in a French hospital. Somewhat ironic, non? Now I can tell you the service is as slick, professional and efficient as warrants its top ranking in Europe, and indeed most of the world.

My large single-bed room with TV led on to an equally large bathroom; tiled floors meticulously washed twice a day; bedding changed daily; legions, it seemed, of staff who answered the call button within seconds. I only managed soup twice when there, but four- and five-course lunches and dinners came to be waved away. No wine.

One lunch menu I grabbed to bring home: soup, a roll, a terrine of two fish with a chive sauce, chicken paella with valencienne rice, cheese, a roasted apple lightly coated in caramel; tea, tisane or coffee.

Another good, good friend, H, trudged in every day to break the monotony, bringing books, world news and, more importantly, solace. Others phoned and nurses willingly brought the phone to my bed until my mobile arrived.

The only problem with the service is that once they've got you, it's hard for them to let you go, so thorough are they. A couple of other things were picked up on my scans, including a chipped vertebra, which explains two years of back pain. The consultant was ready to arrange other consultants immediately but that's just too much for a seven-year-old in denial. Appointments were agreed for a few weeks hence instead. Extraordinary.

After I promised to eat, drink three litres of water a day and take a bag of pills, they let me out. Each bit of me, including lungs, has been scanned and evaluated. I am grateful, honest. I just wish it were somebody else's story. And I just hope the poor bugger down the corridor got his cheddar and biscuits.