Why I Love: Angels of the ward

Nurses are there when you are born and when you die and never look away. They are the only ones who treat your body for what it is: a network of nerves, veins and bones, not an abstract idea. Who else would you allow to stick a needle in your flesh?

In the subcontinent you were supposed to address them as "sister" because, when the profession started, most of them belonged to the Christian minority; also, I think, to curb the enthusiasm of those patients whose symptoms exacerbated when they found an immaculately dressed woman handling their diseased body with aplomb.

Doctors with scary acronyms after their names can come across as pompous, and always trace your disease to either a genetic or a character flaw. A nurse would never do that.

In a godless world they are the only sign of divinity; overworked and underpaid angels.

A Case of Exploding Mangoes by Mohammed Hanif (Jonathan Cape, £12.99) is out now