Matron is looking worried.

“Doctor, quick come with me; we’ve got a trouble maker in the Private Wing!”
“What’s the problem?”
“Some old guy getting delusional and he’s a stroppy one.  There he is now, the bald man in the tartan dressing gown.”
“You get on the ‘phone to security Matron, I’ll try and calm him down.”

“Hello sir, why are you out of your ward, is there a problem?”
“Yes, there is a bloody problem!  I don’t need to be in this bloody place and nobody will listen to me!”
“And what’s your name, sir?”
“I’m the Duke of bloody Edinburgh!  Don’t you people know anything?”

“Oh, I see.  And when did you start to think you were the Duke of Edinburgh?”
“When?  Since nineteen forty bloody seven, that’s when!”
“And who did you think you were before then?”
“Before then I was a Prince of Greece and Denmark, a member of the Danish-German House of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksburg.”
“Mmmm… I see. Why don’t I give your family a call and get somebody down here?”

The doctor dials the number on his mobile and explains the situation, then turns to ‘the Duke’. 
“They say that if you can name the footman who has ironed the Royal shirts for the last fifteen years, they’ll believe you’re the Duke and come and fetch you.”

The old man frowns for a moment.
“Tell them to bugger off!”

The sound of laughter from the ‘phone is cut off by the doctor.
“Time for bed old man, time for bed.”

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