I've pretty much seen it all.   I was there the night they died. I watched as the nurses scuttled in and out. I watched the on-call, flummoxed and saw him bleep for some help... the consultant swept in, and asked; Are there any relatives? Next of kin? They should be here.  He left before they arrived.

I tried to look away when, ashen faced they stood awkward, not knowing what to say to each other. I wanted to shout; bring them chairs, somebody talk to them, hug them. But couldn't.

I've watched people leave me.  Some anxious to get out and get on. Others worried about what the future might hold. The shock of unexpected illness and unanticipated diagnosis rumbles through a life for much longer than you might imagine. I've been there, in the small hours, when silent tears trickle down a face into the rock hard pillows.

I know when accidents happen, the embarrassment. The pull cord out of reach. Sometimes patients too ill to know or care.

I hear the noise, the incessant hubbub; there is no peace, no quiet, no escape. The chatter as the HCAs smooth the sheets and blankets. Swapping stories of the night before, boy friends, the weekend, the kids. Chattering, laughing; oblivious of the broken life and fractured family of the people they lean over. I can smell when one of them has been outside for a fag...

I have been cleaned, deep cleaned, scrubbed steamed and choked with chemicals. I've seen it all. The highs, the lows. Heard it all; the lies, the gossip, bad news clumsily broken. I've witnessed the pain and the elation of good news so casually spoken.

I've been here a long time; nearly fifty years and I am a product of the Royal College of Art. And no, I am not a picture. I've become invisible but indispensable; counted and fought over and the cause of most management angst.

I am the baby of Bob Archer and started my life at Chase Farm Hospital in north London. Then I cost about �30,000 and was examined, surveyed and my performance monitored as closely as any of the electronic kit that stands in the wards today.

I was supposed to be an aid to NHS productivity. The Health Secretary at the time, Enoch Powell, was keen to point out 'mechanical and powered assistance' would be pivotal to improving nurse outputs. I've heard that a few times since.

Over the years I have been modified, fiddled with but I am still more or less the same and now I have relatives all over the world. Yes, you've guessed; I am an NHS bed. To be precise a 'King's Fund Bed'.

In the last ten years I have seen bed-stays almost halved, from 10 (across all specialties) to 5 and headed for three. Not just in England, but in most developed countries that have a health system. Medicine, surgery, devices, pharma have all got smarter and people spend less and less time in bed, in hospital.

A now sidelined DH initiative 'The Enhanced Recovery Programme', managed to get the stay, in my bed, for a hip replacement down to a few hours. Day case techniques have revolutionised hospital-stays.

At the other end of the scale occupancy can reach an eye watering +90%. A level that most hotels would die for. The drive to fewer beds, smaller hospitals, has ground to a halt as beds fill with patients who have perfectly good beds of their own. Somehow we have to discover the knack of keeping them there.

Beds, part of the furniture; if only they could speak.

Have a good weekend. 

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