My NHS GP (National Health Service General practitioner, for those of you not from the UK, is a free doctor) referred me to a private hospital for a check-up.
Like anyone, I’ve experienced years of turning up at a smelly doctors’ practise, sitting on hard, worn plastic chairs in the dark waiting room for far too long, my feet resting on the prickly, doormat-style carpets, reading magazines which went to press when I was still at school. Sometimes, there’s no magazines and you’re forced to read the signs on the walls: “Picking your nose in public is frowned upon” and “Dog dirt will blind your child.” Then eventually being ushered into an equally unpleasant surgery room filled with worn-out equipment, rushed through my appointment by a tired and uninterested doctor and ultimately told that I am making a fuss about nothing and to stop wasting their time.
I can’t communicate to you how angry NHS doctors can make me feel.
Once, near the end of an appointment, I mentioned something small that had been bothering me. It was only a minor matter. The doctor told me that I was only allocated 7.5 minutes to discuss one ailment, and that if I wanted to talk about something else, even though we were still within that time, I would have to make an appointment at reception for a different day.
There are a myriad of other outrages with which I could regale you, but I will save them
Aside: I know that the NHS are a great organisation, and they do save many lives. My Grandpa, for one, is a complete championer, saying they’ve saved his life many, many times. I’m glad the UK has the NHS, I just wish they were a little more pleasant to deal with and to work for.
Last night I actually enjoyed myself. At a hospital.
Everything was pleasant. The lady on reception when I registered was friendly and jokey, making conversation and explaining why she was asking me certain questions. The place didn’t smell, and the carpets were so nice I wanted to take off my shoes to see whether my toes sank into the shag. People smiled at me and said hello as I walked past, instead of hunching further over their balled-up tissue and avoiding your eyes while they grubbily sniff. The magazines weren’t sticky, and they were relatively recent. I didn’t have time to read them, however, because as soon as I’d flicked past the Best and Worst Bikini Bodies and found the My Sister Ate My Face section, they’d called my name.
Oh, and the doctor. I loved her. She was so kind and caring and I couldn’t look her in the eye for too long in case I burst into tears because she was so nice. She even spent a small amount of time being subtly cross (in a kind way) about how uncaring and flippant the NHS have been. Sniffle.
I even thought to myself how nice it would be to work in admin for a private hospital. Then I shook myself violently and cycled home to drink copious amounts of sparkling wine in recognition of how lovely everything is when you have to pay lots of money for it.
I’m tired.
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