Friday, September 14, 2007
There is a note stuck to the window of my Doctors' surgery that reads
"If possible please avoid visiting the surgery on Monday's and Friday's, as these are our busiest times".
They should rewrite it to read
"Don't be a coming to the surgery on a Monday or a Friday, because you ain't gonna see no fucking Doctor, bitch!"
And I didn't.
I was outside the surgery before it opened. There was quite a queue in front of me. The surgery opened. We started the trudge to the counter. After 20 minutes I got to the front of the queue. The receptionist eyed me suspiciously.
Me: "I was told yesterday that if I got here early I might be able to see a Doctor."
Her: "Sorry, Jim. We're fully booked. You could try again on Monday. Or you could ring NHS Direct."
Me: "I've already done that. They said to see a Doctor."
To her obvious disinterest I went through a few symptoms. I said that I did feel better, but still wanted to see a Doctor. Better safe than sorry and all that.
Then she said brightly, "If you think it's an emergency, you could always ring 999." (In the UK this is the number for emergency services.)
Me: "OK. Thanks for your help. If I'm still alive, I might be back on Monday."
I won't be. (Back, that is. I don't imagine that I will be dead, touch wood.) I will sort myself out with rest and healthy food. Luckily, since I had a very deep sleep this afternoon, I feel much better.
Lorraine did call to see how I got on at the Doctor's. She was less than pleased that I let myself be fobbed off. She mentioned the heart attack that killed my Dad and that she would kill me herself if I went the same way. (Eh?)
Did I let myself get fobbed off? Maybe. The way I look at it is that there are a lot of people worse off than me. On this occasion I had no justification for making a fuss, especially as the worst of whatever was wrong with me seems to have passed.
... OK, maybe I was a pussy. Lorraine is the warrior in this house. I am the intellectual. (Stop laughing at the back.)
"If possible please avoid visiting the surgery on Monday's and Friday's, as these are our busiest times".
They should rewrite it to read
"Don't be a coming to the surgery on a Monday or a Friday, because you ain't gonna see no fucking Doctor, bitch!"
And I didn't.
I was outside the surgery before it opened. There was quite a queue in front of me. The surgery opened. We started the trudge to the counter. After 20 minutes I got to the front of the queue. The receptionist eyed me suspiciously.
Me: "I was told yesterday that if I got here early I might be able to see a Doctor."
Her: "Sorry, Jim. We're fully booked. You could try again on Monday. Or you could ring NHS Direct."
Me: "I've already done that. They said to see a Doctor."
To her obvious disinterest I went through a few symptoms. I said that I did feel better, but still wanted to see a Doctor. Better safe than sorry and all that.
Then she said brightly, "If you think it's an emergency, you could always ring 999." (In the UK this is the number for emergency services.)
Me: "OK. Thanks for your help. If I'm still alive, I might be back on Monday."
I won't be. (Back, that is. I don't imagine that I will be dead, touch wood.) I will sort myself out with rest and healthy food. Luckily, since I had a very deep sleep this afternoon, I feel much better.
Lorraine did call to see how I got on at the Doctor's. She was less than pleased that I let myself be fobbed off. She mentioned the heart attack that killed my Dad and that she would kill me herself if I went the same way. (Eh?)
Did I let myself get fobbed off? Maybe. The way I look at it is that there are a lot of people worse off than me. On this occasion I had no justification for making a fuss, especially as the worst of whatever was wrong with me seems to have passed.
... OK, maybe I was a pussy. Lorraine is the warrior in this house. I am the intellectual. (Stop laughing at the back.)
Labels: Illness
# posted by Pynchon @ 3:36 pm 
