I’ve had a lovely day.
One of the days in London where everyone you sit down with are charming, interested in my battered suitcase of wares and keen to do business. The sort of day where new business arrives as promised and the sort of day where the constant threat of a soaking never happens (a big hello to everyone who has ever pointed out to me that I really should get a coat, umbrella etc).
Anyway, on the subject of cold weather gear, it has actually been rather chilly recently hasn’t it? I rarely wear a coat (spellcheck went for ‘goat’ here, just mentioning it as I don’t do that either but it made me chuckle). So, me, no coat though in my defence I do wear a scarf which is quite big so a sort of coat. I, apparently as a direct consequence, have had a cold for six weeks. That became man-flu and, the weekend before last, full-blown bedridden ‘flu. The legacy of this, as anyone who has spoken to me this year will testify, is a truly deliciously hacking cough. The sort of cough that makes people look for the seal in the room and, quite frankly, the harem were getting cross. Now, the NHS advises sagely that any cough that reaches it’s third week should be referred to a GP. Or perhaps I’m the referral? Anyway, I’ve been watching Breaking Bad (only on series two so no spoilers please) but I’ve seen where Walt’s cough took him. Yep, a small cough and within weeks he’s a drug dealer. I didn’t want that.
So, my friend Miss Ross is very clear in these situations. Get to the Doctor. Miss Ross is very strict.So, I try. The GP’s website informs me helpfully that the surgery’s six partners now have 6.2 million patients so, if you don’t mind awfully, would you all please refrain from being ill. Ignoring this I thought I’d try and ring them and get an appointment for a wonder drug to clear my chest. I ring and ring and ring…. so, ok, let’s try their online booking system. The sort of system you used to see after you’d last dialled up. Now I’ve long forgotten my password so having exhausted the usual combinations of loved ones names and special numbers, the system advised me I am some kind of eejit and directs me to the ‘forgot your password dimwit?’ button. At which point the system crashes, and does so every time.
Ok. I hadn’t been outdoors that day thought I’d walk to the surgery and book an appointment. I greeted by the lovely lady of reception with a scowl, though to be fair to her, that could have been wind. I asked to book an appointment and, looking up, she asked gleefully if it was life-threatening. Kinda missing the opportunity, I replied in the negative at which point she offered a slot in 21 days time. I suggested that I might be better by then, to which she replied that that would be good and could I remember to cancel my appointment.
I walked out, but undaunted, went to the pharmacy. The very lovely French pharmacist was very helpful (I’m going to be ill more often, im certain), observing the stage blood down my shirt, and suggested that I really ought to see my GP. I explained the predicament and she pointed me towards the walk-in centre (what if you’re not well enough to walk in?) but then noticed that it would be shut now so suggested A&E…
Now, I’m not going to get political on here (made that mistake on Facebook recently and quickly realised which of my acquaintances have views, which we will say, are a little to the right of mine). But Jeremy Hunt (how difficult that is to say, thank you Jim Naughtie), what a mess! How can someone with a bad cough end up being directed to A&E? No wonder they’re collapsing with their workload.
Fortunately, the 1600 from Paddington is fairly lighted loaded this evening but the caped-Quiet-coach-crusader has issues to deal with. There’s excessive crisp eating for starters, though I think the man in A52 has popcorn which seems to come in an especially noisy packet. Popcorn eaters seem to have a special routine for extricating every last crumb from the deepest recesses whilst making some deep orgasmic noise. This is why cinemas have the volume up so high. Then we then have an old boy with those headphones on that make you look like a Cyberman, listening to some dreadful swing at a volume we’re all enjoying. The lady in A72 is on the phone.
The man in A5 sounds like a barking Alsation.
I’m going to be busy. Though, yet again, the WiFi doesn’t particularly work and the power sockets are broken.
Happy Wednesday all!
Footnote; the man in front of me has returned from the buffet with a packet of Tyrell’s extra crunchy and smelly cheese crisps and a tin of Thatchers. At least he’ll be off at Swindon.