As a boy, we lived in the valley of the Trent River in England. It was a damp place. In the winter everyone seemed to have bronchitis - cough, cough, cough. It was so common that the local chemists concocted their own remedies which were sworn upon by their various advocates. My father's favourites were Famel Syrup, which tasted like a mixture of bitumen and paraffin, and Tusmac, which tasted distinctly like creosote mixed with turpentine.

When these remedies failed, we were dressed in our best clothes - hair brushed, shoes polished - and carted off to the doctor. The surgery was impeccable with its polished brown lino, hard bentwood chairs and out-of-date magazines. Doctor Valentine was always immaculately dressed in his grey suit, bow tie and fresh buttonhole.

His freezing-cold stethoscope told him the story of my chest and he would say to my mother: "Ai, the wee boy's got the bronchitis again" - which we already knew, but needed some more powerful prescription to effect another temporary cure.

When I was much older, my one and only visit to a hospital was to have a small operation. Unfortunately, after the surgery, my waterworks ceased to function. The cure was to have a catheter inserted, and my bladder drained to prime the system. This operation was to be carried out by two young nurses. As I lay naked, on my back, in front of me was a TV screen showing Nigel Mansell, the Formula One motor racing champion, and as the nurses prepared to insert the tube, the whole incongruous scene tickled my sense of humour and I began to giggle. "Please don't laugh," pleaded one of the nurses, "or we'll never get this tube inserted into your bladder." I held my breath, stifled the laughter and the job was successfully carried out with instant relief. The priming had worked and all was well thereafter.

My first experience of Bulgarian hospitals came when, one dark middle of the night, I woke up sweating profusely and feeling sick. I got out of bed only to fall over from dizziness. My wife jumped out of bed and said: "I'm calling a taxi to take us to Pirogov; you must be seriously ill." Staggering to the entrance of the hospital, the guard took one look at my ashen face and immediately let us in. We were greeted only by the sound of regular heavy breathing.

"Anyone here?" my wife said, and a sleepy nurse, with a belligerent frown on her face, appeared from a side room.

"What do you want," she croaked?"

"Can't you see he's ill?" my wife said.

The nurse asked a few questions, then pointed us towards the stomach department. "Up the stairs, turn left."

On the second floor all was silent. "Hello," called my wife nervously, and another sleepy nurse appeared. Again it was "what do you want?" (read, "You've woken me up").

When Galya had explained my symptoms, the nurse woke up the resident doctor, who came to look at me. He lit a cigarette, and with a puzzled look blew the smoke in my face. This immediately made me feel sick.

"Bucket, bucket," I spluttered, and this was quickly produced. I was violently sick and immediately felt better. Was this some Bulgarian miracle cure? Simple but effective.

The doctor was pleased with his efforts. "Hmm, looks as though he's eaten something and got mild food poisoning." He took my blood pressure - "Too low, that's why he's falling over; he'll probably be ok now."

He issued the usual prescription of a few drugs, one for each contingent. We bade him goodbye and went out into the fresh air of the dawn, while he went back to his sleep on the examination couch.

My second experience was much more serious. I had been travelling extensively in Romania and Ukraine, and had somehow picked up the milder strain of hepatitis - still dangerous. Again I had felt ill and sick in the night. In the morning, I called the British embassy and made an appointment to see the nurse. After grilling me on my recent activities, taking urine tests, etc, she ventured her diagnosis: "I think you've got hepatitis. You must go to the German embassy, where they've got a blood analysis machine."

The test at the embassy revealed that some parameter of my blood was far from normal. The nurse immediately telephoned the specialist hepatitis unit at the Military Hospital, and sent me there for recuperation. The doctor in charge confirmed my illness and said that I should fetch my pyjamas and such and come back immediately, as he was admitting me. It took me a while to collect my belongings and return, by which time it was evening and I was feeling distinctly ill.

The obstructive guard couldn't understand my pidgin Bulgarian and wouldn't let me in. I sat on my bag in the entrance hall feeling very ill and sorry for myself. Eventually, a young nurse going on duty appeared at the entrance. She saw me sitting disconsolately on my bag and asked if I needed help. When I told her my predicament, she immediately told the guard what a silly fool he was, took me by the arm and escorted me to the hepatitis unit.

They had decided to put me in a room by myself. The room had seen better days - the walls were dirty, the floor pock-marked with cigarette burns and the net curtains nicotine yellow. But the bed was immaculately clean, with fresh sheets and blankets, so I set up my little radio, tuned to the BBC and immediately felt better. Venturing into the bathroom, I discovered that the toilet was not working properly, but there was a bucket placed nearby for the purpose of flushing. Glancing up to the cracked mirror above the hand basin, horror of horrors, a swarm of cockroaches was running for cover behind the mirror.

I prepared to do battle.

Various doctors came to see if I was ok, each one taking my blood pressure and asking me if I had a headache, then disappearing again. Eventually the head doctor appeared, and, as I had no needle marks in my arms or wrists, he decided that I was not a drug taker, and explained that the hepatitis had probably been picked up somewhere on my travels, in the toilets or something. He impressed upon me that this was a dangerous condition, as it had given me a swollen and inflamed liver, so I must rest, lying on my back whenever possible, take the drugs he prescribed, and drink plenty of yoghurt and fruit juice.

I switched off the light and tried to sleep. Every time I turned it back on, there was a scurry of little black insects across the floor. Arming myself with a folded newspaper, my technique was to suddenly switch on the light and attack. After a few days, the ethnic cleansing was successful, and my score was rising as fast as the cockroaches retreated. I had to look for new games to entertain myself.

Throughout the following days, I was treated with great kindness and professionalism, despite the living conditions, which were not of the staff's making. The food was cold and disgusting, and I was very bored, so I decided that all I really needed was rest and the right foods with nil alcohol. Thinking that I'd be better off at home, I decided to discharge myself. The head doctor was very upset at this, trying to persuade me that I was doing a very dangerous thing, but, being obstinate, I persisted, and was released after signing the requisite non-responsibility document. After a couple of weeks' rest, and nil alcohol for six months, I was cured, I hoped.

Our local doctor in Sofia works from the polyclinic in the next street. Even though she lampoons me about my lack of Bulgarian language every time I go to see her, she continues to treat my minor ailments. The polyclinic system seems to work well. If you want to consult the doctor, you simply go and queue. In practice, it probably takes no longer than when you have made an appointment, and you are guaranteed to see the doctor. If she thinks that you need a specialist, there's probably one lurking somewhere in the clinic, so you could see them immediately, or definitely the next day.

I most recently fell into the clutches of an hospital when, one Sunday evening while driving home from the countryside, a deep pain started in my stomach. On arrival, I dragged myself upstairs to consult my friendly neighbour, a doctor. He decided that my pain was serious enough to get me into his car and take me to see a specialist friend of his at the local hospital. After a thorough examination the diagnosis was swiftly made.

"Looks like you've got some trouble with your gall bladder, probably gallstones. You need surgery." This was confirmed by ultrasound in the morning.

Sure enough, I had a large gallstone which needed removing. I was introduced to a rather strange surgeon, who, for an agreed payment, would operate as soon as possible. He carried out an examination and confirmed gallstone. He also, unbidden, gave me a very painful examination between the legs, and said: "It is likely that you will have a rupture at some time," to which I retorted: "Firstly, anyone can get ruptured and secondly, I didn't request this examination, so I won't be using your services to deal with my gallstone, goodbye." I was introduced to another surgeon, who checked the ultrasound with one of his own and said: "Yes, it's a large gallstone and needs surgery." We agreed that I make him a donation for some new instruments, and the operation was set for the following Tuesday.

The surgery department was filled with the babble of anxious relatives, patients exiting and others, like me, arriving. The surgeon's nurse conducted me to my pleasant room, which had its own bathroom, air conditioner, pay television, etc, where she instructed me to put on my pyjamas and wait. After about 10 minutes, she came back with a "follow me". We walked to the operating theatre, which looked a little old fashioned, but was immaculately clean.

"Take off your pyjamas and get on the operating table," she said. Bemused at the brusqueness of the command, I did as I was told, and was immediately set upon by three unidentified masked people dressed in green gowns. Without comment or explanation, they proceeded to strap me down, tape a respirator to my face, and stick various needles and tubes into my wrists. I didn't get any time to be nervous before I fell into a deep (and happy) sleep.

The next thing I knew, there was someone shouting in my ear. "Wake up Gospodin Clark, wake up, wake up!" My head was ringing, I had a severe pain in my stomach and I groaned loudly. The surgeon looked pleased, I was still alive! A posse of nurses gently moved my aching body on to a waiting trolley, wheeled me down the corridor and levered me back into my bed. After a few days' recuperation, I was considered fit to leave and was given my first meal of popara, a mixture of sirene (feta cheese), bread and water, and in this case sugar. Even though I hadn't eaten for a few days, I couldn't stomach this concoction, so they let me out hungry, with strict instructions on what I could and couldn't eat, and an appointment to attend in a couple of weeks for the removal of my stitches.

After a few days, I woke up one morning with my pyjamas covered in blood - the operation wound was leaking! We quickly called the surgeon and were told to go to the hospital immediately. The nurse hurried us into the surgeon's room, where he inspected the weeping incision. With a loud "tut! tut!", he turned to my wife, who looked at him with disbelief as he shook his finger at her and said: "This is your fault. You shouldn't be having sex with him so soon after a serious operation!"