Forty years ago I was in an English boarding school. It was deep in the middle of the Somerset countryside and I remember it still for its corporal punishment, its intrusive Catholicism, its eccentric monks, its occasional flash of brilliance and mostly its grinding monotony. Even as a pupil it was like being in an enclosed order. We were allowed out on only two Sundays a term, when you could leave after high mass at about 11.30 and be back again by six or seven. Since my parents were nearly always far away, that meant my two exeats were mostly with other people's parents. If you timed it well, running as soon as mass ended, you could make Sunday lunch in 'The Hole in the Wall' in Bath, a classy restaurant that I still remember with affection. This also needed a set of parents prepared to pay 'Hole in the Wall' prices.

I can almost hear you asking 'why these childhood reminiscences?', so let me explain. My physical circumstances haven't changed since last week, I'm still looking over Elm Park Golf course from St. Vincent's Hospital, where tests on my health continue. But I've put my time here to very good use. A kindly friend lent me a portable DVD and a whole lot of films so I've been watching three movies a day and keeping my sanity. Amongst others I now have a few good music movies watched, starting with Scorsese's 'Last Waltz', then 'Don't Look Back' with Dylan, U2's 'Rattle and Hum' and the wonderful 'Almost Famous'.

It would be very easy for the routine of hospital life dull the edge of pleasure and joie de vivre, but thankfully I'm in the hands of a bunch of dedicated professionals who understand that a man needs to eat out once a week at the very least. This wonderfully liberal attitude meant that Dr. Watson gave me an exeat for Sunday lunch, with the proviso that I promised to come back. Apparently it's been known for people to do a runner from time to time and not come back at all.

Now there's a rumour, spread by my wife I think, that I'm on the path to a new, health-centred lifestyle as a result of my recent hospitalisation. She's rather hoping that I'm going to suddenly start eating brown rice and lentils, while re-birthing, experiencing aromatherapy, taking Bach remedies, putting homeopathic drops on my tongue and perhaps take up wearing open-toed sandals to complete the picture. I'm not ruling out a Pauline conversion - it's a possibility - but what I really wanted for my day of freedom was a traditional Sunday lunch.A few phone calls and the plan was quickly made, lunch not too far away just in case, and Michael Lennon and Alexis Mitchel for company. So now you see why the memories came flooding back: I was leaving my ward/dormitory for a brief outing soon to return to institutional life.

So a little unsteadily - it's hard to find your feet after more than a week on your back - I made my way out the hospital to Michael's waiting car. Within moments we were in Ashton's in Clonskeagh, where we had a table overlooking the quiet flowing Dodder on a damp and moist day. Ashton's is a pub that takes the food element of its trade seriously. The whole centre of the ground floor is given over to food counters where you pass a large selection of cold dishes like various cuts of meat, fish and salads and then you find the hot roasts. There was roast lamb and pork, but when my eyes fell on the pink and luscious roast beef my mind was made up. A couple of roast potatoes, a little mash, a bit of cauliflower cheese and my plate was filled to perfection. It may not have been haute cuisine, but it was exactly what I wanted and it fitted just right into the traditional Sunday lunch pattern. A pint of beer - my first in two weeks - completed my lunch.

Judging by the large numbers of people availing of the Sunday lunch, I'm not the only one who though it was very good value at less than a tenner a head. I'm sure you could produce a similar meal at home for less, but it wouldn't be much less. The infusion of red meat left me feeling a lot better than I had been for a while - or maybe it was the beer - so much so that a dessert was needed. We'd lingered perhaps a little too long over that decision, because most of the various desserts had disappeared by the time we decided to have one, but there was a decent looking banoffi left and Alexis and I shared a slice. As we ate it she said 'toffee and banana'. 'What?' I said. 'Banana and toffee', she said, 'that's how it got its name.' Am I the last person in the world to know this?

We were at this stage comfortable, fed and relaxed. 'You know what we need now?' asked Michael rhetorically, 'a good port.' He went off to the bar and came back in a state of some excitement. 'They've got a 1975 and it's so reasonable it's almost a gift. It's on the way.' A few minutes later it was on the table along with three glasses. Alexis read the label out loud 'produce of South Australia'. We stopped mid conversation and looked at one another. 'Australia?' Sure enough our '75 Vintage port was from South Australia and rather good it was too, although I'd bet that today the word 'port' wouldn't be on the label. Producers are getting quite litigious now about protecting their names, so bottles that say things like 'Australian Chablis', or indeed 'Australian Port' are almost collectable.

Michael looked at his watch and then at me. 'I think it's time we got you back to school. Sorry, I mean hospital.' And so it was. The clock was approaching six and I was due back in the dorm before lights out. Still, I'd had a cracker of a day out. A nice warm mug of cocoa before bed as I looked out the window at the lights of the city left me thinking that maybe soon I'd be back on the outside.