BY THE time we hit the second curve as it dipped into a long stretch, we were gathering some speed and Jacqueline’s shout of ‘Cross your arms,’ did not bode well.

I wasn’t strapped in – you tend not to be in a wheelchair – and frankly there was no way I was unclenching my bloodless hands from the arms.

If this was the call to brace, brace, then I was doomed.

Weakly I threw back: ‘Why?’ as we raced on without incident. ‘Why not?’ she replied with a raucous laugh.

At that point I knew I was in the hands of either a mad woman or, as it turned out, the supremely confident doyenne of all the nursing aides who was on a mission and nothing would stand in her way.

She’d arrived in my room early afternoon, told me to put my things away, for we were going out.

Too tall, too imposing, too certain, Jacqueline is not a woman to argue with and anyway I hadn’t sniffed fresh air beyond an open window for weeks.

The mission was to seek and find my missing clothes. For ten euros a week my clothes have been taken to the in-house laundry, washed, ironed and returned within a couple of days.

Well, most of them. Missing in action were a couple of cotton, short Moroccan dresses, half of my knickers and probably the odd cotton shirt.

I’d nagged everybody about them and the head of the laundry herself had come to see me for a full description. Nothing. Then I moaned to Jacqueline who has worked here for 26 years.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked as she pushed me towards the lift. ‘To find your clothes,’ she replied in the tones of one announcing the quest for the Holy Grail.

Now, Jacqueline embodies all the virtues required in a nurse – plus some – but she has one tiny problem: She’s clumsy. Taking my brace off she invariably caught my heel in the hole for the back of the knee and kept tugging; turning a light weight like me in the early days would have me hanging out the side as she yanked me back in by the scruff of my hospital gown and I had to stop her lifting me up to the top of the bed after I ascended as fast as the cork from a champagne bottle.

And here we were. The metal extension to keep my leg straight had already hit the lift doors, corners of walls and one unfortunate visitor. But having once knocked down a pedestrian on the pavement of a very narrow street in Bordeaux with my wing mirror, such incidents no longer trouble me.

Going up the, to me, almost vertical ambulance entrance, did. Behind me J puffed and pushed as we mounted the cliff to the road. There were a couple of gentle slippages.

A perfectly easy, graded wheelchair ramp came out on to the road just yards away.

And then our magical mystery tour really began. She zoomed me into pavilions where medical staff royally greeted her presence; into at least two more lifts and surreally into an old folks’ BBQ party in the Maison de Retraite attached to the clinic.

A wall of music hit me as quivery voices warbled, empty apero cups on the tables in front of them, and aides sang along as they cleared up.

Some of the souls were brought in their beds but seemed happy enough singing out from their pillows, as drips and catheters ran in and out of them.

‘This is Madame Cook,’ shouted J to the body of the hall as all eyes looked up. ‘She’s a journalist. English.’ I muttered: ‘No, Irish.’ A rippled aaaaah went up as we twirled into another passage. I waved a dignified farewell from my chariot.

Down and down we went until arriving at swing doors which opened to reveal a monstrous stone stair case.

‘No, no, no J,’ I begged. She looked at me as if I were the one who was mad and did a neat turn at their very edge followed by a brake lock down.

From a side door the laundry overseer arrived followed by a minion wheeling several enormous cardboard boxes.

J dived in to an astonishing assortment of clothes. ‘All lost?’ I asked. ‘Yes. And left.’ I inquired no further.

We found my dresses in the third and fourth boxes – I decided not to pursue the knickers.

J picked up one of the boxes to help its return. The bottom burst open scattering clothes everywhere. We left. My ironed dresses were ready within ten minutes and picked up at another entrance.

Obviously and rightly proud of the compound, J took me around the grounds pointing out the original brick building with its chapel still in place.

It was once a maternity hospital and now houses the old. A fitting circle some might say. We admired tubs of flowers brought in for the BBQ and she introduced me to the young director of entertainment who was in charge of all local hospitals.

We returned via a more direct, level route, scraping the odd tub on the way and my adventure ended as we hit the door post to my room.

It didn’t matter – I’d forgive Jacqueline anything for the size of her heart.