Spending 10 days in hospital recently involved a lot of doorbells. Luckily placed in my own room on the stroke and neurorehabilitation unit, I was allowed to walk around the hospital as long as I was accompanied by friends who could care for me in the event of a seizure. Each ward was locked and entering any area meant ringing a doorbell and explaining why you should be allowed in.

The hospital chapel was different: the door was open and, though empty, it welcomed you in. Some people prayed alone, others read the edifying literature placed there. Built in the early 1900s, it was enormous and seemed out of place. Each ward was built to maximise the use of space: I slept in a single bed and the room was so small, only two visitors were allowed in at a time. The chapel was different: huge but largely empty, an island of silence in the ceaseless hum of activity of the wards outside.

A sign on the wall informed me that an Anglican chaplain was available at all hours, and a Roman Catholic priest could be summoned within six hours, akin to a guarantee from a pizza restaurant. I found I barely went to the chapel, and only visited it when I was touring friends round the hospital, with myriad wires and sensors – attached in the hope they might find a reason for my constant seizures – covering my head and chest.