Sometimes I feel like a prize-winning greyhound or, preferably, a thoroughbred racehorse being primped and honed for the big stakes race. By nine each morning my temperature, blood pressure and bloods (once a week) are taken.

A vial of a powerful liquid rectifies any slight deficit in my vitamin intake. My skin, which does not react well to stress of any kind, is searched and examined for pressure signs or breaks.

Expensive ointments arrive to be massaged on by knowledgeable hands.

And at least once a day a doctor visits to discuss any pains or twinges I may have and leaves disappointed that I really do not want any more pain killers.

After breakfast there are two four course meals to come. Usually meat – guinea fowl, veal, beef and pork, rarely lamb – or fish such as grilled salmon in a caper sauce.

Always there is bread, cheese, fresh fruit and either vegetables or pasta in its seemingly infinite variety. Soup is a regular feature.

At each of these meals I get a small, very small glass of wine. On prescription. When daringly I asked for two on the night of my son’s wedding, I was told no because I wasn’t eating enough.

(A kindly auxiliary smuggled another in later.)

I am not eating enough in their eyes, although to me it’s outrageous force-feeding, because I cannot face such an amount.

Even if I were walking, or God forbid, running, the intake would be too much.

For a while they substituted with demi-rations and two bottles of a 250-calorie protein drink a day.

Then the dietician arrived to ask what I normally had during the day.

That was a tricky one. How do you explain the concept of the crisp sandwich or oven chips and malt vinegar sometimes followed by a small bar of Dairy Milk?

Or tell a Frenchwoman that you only eat when hungry, which one day might be a bag of crisps, or on another one slice of wholemeal toast spread with humus and avocado?

To be safe I settled for scrambled eggs, poached eggs, occasional slices of chicken and yoghurt.

"You have two eggs on toast for dinner?" she said, scribbling frantically on her clipboard. "I do, often," I said proudly. "Though sometimes I’ll have baked beans instead. All protein."

Actually, it’s very hard to explain baked beans from scratch to someone who doesn’t have a clue what you’re talking about.

"And that is all you eat for dinner?" She said this with the outrage only a Frenchwoman can muster when talking of a sacred meal.

"Don’t you like French food?"

There are times in life when a lie is the right route to take. As I now know I will be in this fine rehab until the end of October, I gave an enthusiastic, "Of course I do. Absolutely. I just can’t eat a lot."

Off she went relatively happy and from now on I can eat the soup only for dinner so long as I have some cheese as well…and eat what I can the rest of the day.

Believe me I am not ungrateful to be the recipient of this incredible health service and largesse.

Every day I receive around the clock attention from teams of nurses and aides.

I mention, just as a topic of conversation to one, that the physio has said I will definitely be here until October ends and I cannot believe it. She obviously writes my concerns in my folio and the following morning another doctor arrives to confirm it and tells me exactly why.

The first day I put make-up on is equally noted and each nurse remarks on it and tells me it’s vital for the morale and would I like a pedicure and hairdressing?

But the most attention goes on my poor stricken leg and shoulder.

It says as much for the health service as the hardiness of the southern French that their longevity is remarkable and remarked upon.

There are three of us ‘young ones’ here, as the average age of those with breaks or stroke damage appears to be 84.

Repeatedly staff tell me that one is only considered old here after 82.

Wheeled for my physio to the hall for the first time I felt I’d wandered into a creche for geriatrics.

Amidst the many pieces of equipment and walkways, huge balls and weights suspended in leather bags were a riot of primary colours.

A wall of windows led out onto a courtyard as music played softly from a cassette player.

Game old ladies and embarrassed men, legs bandaged like mine, walkers and chairs close to hand, pedalled, tottered or lifted weights with veined legs and arms.

Some clutched parallel bars as they lifted a leg in a parody of balance. Others, about to graduate, walked almost briskly on a treadmill.

Physios watch and adjust legs to an almost imperceptible degree or, quite often, urge restraint.

Their stoic determination makes me bite my tongue on my familiar ‘non’ and shames me into compliance. Besides these racehorses I’m merely a seaside donkey.