Last time I got my head cut open, about the only thing I noticed was the pair of dumpy wooden swing doors to the operating theatre. They seemed to me splintery, unsanded, and onto each was stencilled a quartet of inscrutable, rune-like figures. Set against the mint and stainless steel of the rest of the place the doors were incongruous, a hangover from a previous age, when surgery was performed with rusty fire hooks and zero anaesthetic. I shuffled past in my disposable slippers.