I met my first nurse 84 years ago in a small English town on the outskirts of London. It was the occasion of my birth, which took place in the family home, as was the custom at the time. When my imminent appearance was heralded, district nurse Esme Potter, the local midwife, had to be fetched. Father was out of town (India) with the army and we had no car or telephone. Grandfather dutifully got out his trusty bicycle to ride the three miles to alert her. She mounted her bike and got to the house before he did. He had stopped off at the local pub, The Windsor Castle, to "wet the baby's head." This was a time-honoured tradition for the male members of English families to help them through the rigours of childbirth. I presume my Dad, up on the North West Frontier, downed a glass of India Pale Ale. He would get the news several days later: no phone, no e-mail.

Nurse Potter was a very stern lady - the epitome of Florence Nightingale, that heroine nurse of the Crimean War. All starch and suspenders was Nurse Potter! She pottered around in our young lives constantly, attending the school to check our tiny heads for lice, patching up the wounded from playground wars, and keeping a sharp eye open for malnourished children. If she encountered one she would inveigle cod-liver oil and malt and extra milk supplements for the kid in need.

God bless her. We preferred her to the truant officer, Captain Coventry, who was a retired army officer. He patrolled the streets during school hours looking for boys who were A.W.O.L. and would drag us back to school by our ears. That is why one of my ears is longer than the other, but he is another story.

Serving in the Far East during the war, I fell victim to the usual exotic illnesses such as malaria, jungle foot rot and Delhi belly. I also fell for the even more exotic nurses, who did not dress at all like Florence Nightingale, though they did have her ladylike qualities. Nurses today dress more like Olympic athletes. Given the work they have to perform, they have to dress for speed.

In more recent years I went up on the hoist for a knee replacement. If there is one in your future don't worry about it - it's a piece of cake! Three days after the operation, I was in the washroom and spied a gleaming chrome fixture attached to the toilet. Being well travelled in Muslem countries, I quickly grasped that this was a personal bidet. I aimed the device in the appropriate direction and pressed the button, only to receive the coldest jet stream this side of Goose Bay.

My poor knee, which had been under motor compulsion for three days to induce movement without success, jolted into action. When I pressed the panic button, a nurse named Candy responded. She made a valiant attempt not to giggle when I explained what had happened. It seems that the personal bidet was in fact sluice to clean out bedpans. I don't know what Florence Nightingale would think of a nurse named Candy who couldn't keep a straight face.

Ed Pearson lives in Burlington.