Today, I travelled by train, due to having no other, feasible option. In hindsight, perhaps walking in, plagued by blisters, lack of footpaths, and renegade cyclists, would've been nicer.
Well, to be fair, it does make my top five in the pleasant experiences with National Rail list. So much so, that as I walked underneath the puppy billboard, I even managed to relax my hands (tight balls of anger as standard), concentrate on the path ahead (glaring at devilish advertisement and walk into commuter as standard) AND think happy thoughts (death threats to artist as standard).
But as you've hopefully come to expect from me, I do have a gripe. And my gripe (if the word can be wielded in such a fashion) is with Doctors. I remember a time, albeit coated in the fuzzy paint of childhood nostalgia, when I had one Doctor, one nice, fatherly looking Doctor, who pandered to my every complaint. A Doctor, who managed to feign warmth, concern, and having all the time in the world. There was magic cream which would take the pain away, sensible jumpers, clean white coats, and a prompt prescription.
Oh the times they are a changing! Now, you sit, with an embarrassing copy of heat, reading about the woman who gave birth to herself. After you've signed yourself in to a Doctor you've never had. This assignment appears to operate on a kind of pot luck system. There are roughly twelve Doctors at my medical practice, and I rarely see the same one twice. Which is great. Because I'd hate a friendly rapport and familiarity to develop. I'd hate to be genuinely comfortable to discuss the tail developing at the end of my spine/inability to urinate/blindness in one eye with one person. Instead, a myriad of strangers partake in the the bizarre state of my health.
So there you are, jumping out of your skin, as the pixel board above orders each of you in turn to your Doctor, with a needle-sharp ping. Thirty minutes later than expected, it's your go. Now, here's where the fun begins. The practice in Morley have cleverly devised a maze system, where to see your Doctor, you first have to earn the rite. The idea being, that if you can't find them, shitter for you. And this is exactly why appointments run over. Their offices are hidden in cubby holes, round corners, in nooks and crannies, under the carpet, in the toilet etc. One would not be altogether surprised to discover the fabled minotaur.
You're in, you're safe.
Scenario 1: Some early twenties man in jeans is typing on a computer. You provide a list of symptoms, which they input into Google (or some similar programme). Rather pleased with themselves, they print the sourced information off for you to read. You, in your charmingly hypochondriac fashion, have already deduced this. Thanks.
Scenario 2: 'Unfortunately we don't know a lot about the condition. You'll just have to learn to get along with it.' Oh, great. I'm glad I booked time off work to find out that the majority of things ailing my body are incurable.
Scenario 3: 'It's okay at the moment. If it gets worse, come back. Oh, take 12,000 Ibuprofren a day.' A.K.A 'Well, you're not currently at death's door and I'm desperate to nip out for a cous cous salad. Please leave'.
Scenario 4 (you have more than one worry): 'I can only cope with one health concern. Make a separate appointment for each concern.' Which you are very pleased to hear. They've been so ridiculously unhelpful with your first query, that you're looking forward to a similar level of competence with any future ones.
Yeah, unless it's one for A&E, I think I'll just whack a plaster on it.
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