When I was about four years old, I went into what was then known as Watford’s Shrodells Hospital to have my tonsils and adenoids removed.

Back in the late 60s this seemed to be the default treatment for any child with constant sniffles and painful earaches.

I don’t think this operation is quite so common these days, but I have to say that in my case it certainly did the trick. Today, my only legacy from that bout of childhood illness is an allergy to certain types of antibiotics.

I didn’t realise this until a couple of years ago.

After being prescribed some gobstopper-sized antibiotics to deal with a persistent cough, I was amazed to wake up the morning after taking the first pill to find myself covered in red spots and wheezing away like an asthmatic donkey.

When all the prime suspects for these sudden onset symptoms were eliminated -I had to sit in a side room at the surgery, while the nurse checked that it wasn’t something horribly contagious like German measles, ordinary measles or chicken pox - my doctor quickly realised that the antibiotics were the problem and changed the treatment.

Apparently an intolerance to some antibiotics, especially penicillin, is quite common in people who were exposed to high doses when they were young. Before my tonsils and adenoids were whipped out, I think I was almost on an intravenous penicillin drip to fight my constant infections, so I’m not surprised that in later life my body has rebelled.

Funnily enough, the only other thing I’ve discovered I’m allergic to is farmed salmon. And considering the amount of antibiotics pumped into those intensively reared fish I can’t help thinking that it’s not actually the salmon that makes me react so badly, but the chemicals used to keep them ‘healthy’.

Anyway, like Ronnie Corbett in the big chair, I digress. The reason I’m writing about my adenoids - I’m still not entirely sure what they are - and other tonsil-related trivia this week is that exactly a month ago I went into hospital for another small throat operation and memories of my infant sojourn in Shrodells came flooding back.

I think I must have been quite an unusual child, because I was looking forward to going into hospital immensely. In fact, when I was initially admitted and then told to go home again because I had (yet another) streaming cold, I cried so much at the prospect of leaving that my long-suffering mother was sure the horrified nurses regarded her as some sort of child beater.

None of them realised that I was actually making a scene because there was an enormous painted rocking horse on the ward and the prospect of being parted from this magnificent beast eclipsed every other thought in my pony-mad infant brain.

Two weeks later I was infection free and admitted again. I was absolutely thrilled to be reunited with the object of my fantasies and once again the nurses exchanged knowing glances as my poor anxious mum tried to attract my attention long enough to say goodbye.

(This was back in the days of strict visiting times, you understand. These days parents would be allowed to stay at their toddler’s bedside.) As far as I was concerned hospital was fantastic - much better than my play group at the Harebreaks. Not only was there a pony-sized rocking horse with a proper mane and tail, but there was a huge box of toys and eight new playmates on the ward to have fun with.

To be honest, I think I was quite badly behaved and over-excited about the whole thing. It must have come as blessed relief for matron next morning when I was finally wheeled - still talking - down to the operating theatre.

I wasn’t so chirpy a bit later, however, when I woke up feeling as if I’d swallowed a cheese grater.

Even worse, the neatly starched nurses insisted that all the children on the ward should look their best to meet their parents after the tonsillectomies. This meant having our hair combed until it squeaked and then secured in pony tails of various lengths on top of our heads in bows so tight they made our eyes water. Girls had pink ribbons and boys had blue ones. And we all had to sit upright in our beds for an hour before visiting time to ensure that the bows stayed in place.

Just try to imagine that happening today!

We were a very subdued bunch when our loving parents came to see us that evening, I can tell you. All thoughts of the magnificent rocking horse were forgotten as I begged to be taken home immediately.

Things started to look up when I was discharged the next day. The doctor prescribed a post-operative diet that consisted mainly of jelly and ice cream - and what child, even a slightly tetchy one, could resist the opportunity to live on party food for a week?

Last month I particularly remembered the dietary aftermath of my infant brush with the operating theatre. I’ve only ever been admitted to hospital twice in my life and both times it was for throat surgery, so I knew what to expect.

My husband had strict instructions to stock up on ice cream, yoghurt, smoothies and jelly, and for most of February I’ve pretty much lived on a cool and slippery diet of easily swallowed nursery favourites.

Mind you, I have to say that I soon abandoned the smoothies after realising that sipping anything even remotely fruity had the same effect on my healing throat as gargling with battery acid.

Unfortunately wine produced the same incredibly painful effect.

Looking on the bright side, last month I managed to lose just over half a stone on my throat-soothing, semi-liquid diet and I’ve recently been able to wriggle into jeans I thought my buttocks would never make contact with again.

On the other hand, just when I feel more than ready and able to face a nice large glass of red wine, Lent has arrived.

I’ve promised myself that this year I’ll give up alcohol again for Lent, but I have to admit the temptation to pour myself a large glass of Rioja as a post-operative treat is hard to resist.

I am, however, managing to console myself with something I discovered during the days of my recent restrictive diet.

Carluccio’s full-fat, bitter chocolate ice cream is diabolically addictive. It can only be a matter of days now before those jeans get stuck just above my knees again.

By the way, my husband reports that as I was wheeled away for my recent operation and then as I was wheeled back again afterwards, all he could hear echoing down the corridor was the sound of me talking. Some things never change eh?