“Thank you, Jeeves,” I said as my butler left the room to give my lunch order — prosciutto with melon and scaloppine piccata — to the upstairs concierge, who would pass it to the house chef. Then the upstairs maid fluffed my pillow and tucked me back into the four-poster bed in my room with burled mahogany walls and gilt mirrors.

I could smell the fresh-cut flowers on my Louis XIV writing desk as I flipped through the channels on the 60-inch flat-screen TV. A rerun of “House?” That will never do. I slipped a Blu-ray Disc into the player and leaned back to watch a movie in super hi-def.

No, it’s not like being at home, but I don’t expect my hospital room to be as elegant as my penthouse. Sometimes we have to put up with inconveniences while recovering from minor surgery due to a polo injury.

I’m surprised more people don’t get hurt playing polo; after all, it is like playing hockey on horseback. My friends and I are real sportsmen who play polo for the love of the game, not for money. We don’t do things for money. We got ours the old-fashioned way: We inherited it.