Pam Holliday was nicknamed Grizzler' during a lengthy stay at the Wingfield-Morris Orthopaedic Hospital at Headington, Oxford.

It wasn't surprising. Just seven years old at the time, in 1945, she was in a lot of pain, and was allowed visitors only at weekends.

Doctors had diagnosed osteomyelitis and had warned her leg might have to be amputated. Five operations followed, all terrifying experiences.

She recalls: "It was very frightening - I cannot recall anyone explaining what was happening to me.

"Sister Walker ruled Robert Jones Ward. My dad was serving in France with the Royal Warwickshire Regiment and was allowed compassionate leave.

"He arrived to see me after a long journey. But Sister Walker was adamant - seeing dad so late in the evening would upset me. He had to return next day.

"Visitors over 18 were allowed only on Saturday and Sunday afternoons. My big brother, Mike, and older sister, Patsy, came occasionally and waved to me through the window.

"Mike cycled from Eynsham one day with my new tabby kitten, Winkey, in his saddlebag, and my mum smuggled Winkey in to me hidden in her coat. Goodness knows what happened to conspirators if caught."

Letters written in pencil to her mother showed how sad she was.

"Looking through them now makes me realise that I must have been a miserable little blighter.

"How worried and distracted my poor mum must have felt getting such letters.

"The cook, Doris, a big cuddly lady, called me Grizzler', but always made me smile."

Hospital food did not make life any better. "I loathed the cooled boiled milk, the compulsory drink for all patients, with its disgusting, sickening smell and the slimy skin that clung to the teeth."

After five months, she was allowed home.

"I put on my best dress and walked down the corridor where mum and Patsy were waiting. I was greeted with gales of laughter. I had grown taller, but the dress was the same size - a pink smocked dress atop matchstick legs, one plastered from ankle to knee.

"There were frequent trips by bus to the hospital for check-ups. Patsy tells me that everyone was glad when I had a new plaster because sometimes my leg smelled dreadful.

"The rest of me was washed frequently in the tin bath in the kitchen with my gammy leg dangling over the side."

With no NHS in 1945, her father had to pay £250 towards the hospital bill.

"Many times over the last 60 years, when I have been dancing, skiing, walking the dogs and climbing, I have thought how lucky I am to have two legs.

"Without the doctors and nurses at the Wingfield Hospital, my life might have lasted for just six years."

Mrs Holliday's account appears in Nobbut Torver, a magazine published at Torver, near Coniston, Cumbria.

The Wingfield-Morris Orthopaedic Hospital later became the Nuffield Orthopaedic Centre.