It’s officially been a month since I quit the office job. On my first day of unemployment I wrote up two pages of “to do’s” and throughout August I’ve been getting through them at my own procrastinating pace. I’ve also been doing an excellent job of ignoring the most important one; fixing my bum.
But I finally signed in at the new doctors surgery last week and booked an appointment. I don’t go to doctors much, but since I moved to London my body seems to be falling apart and trips to those in the medical profession are becoming all too frequent for my liking, although for me frequent means more than once a year.
For some reason I have this idea that when you leave your local GP you’re generally feeling better.The Doc has assured you that the green, puss spewing mini volcano on you inner thigh is quite normal, they’ve made the appropriate empathetic noises, maybe even a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and you walk out with a prescription for the cream that’s going to smother not only the life force of volcano but all your apprehensions as well.
I had to wait half an hour to see my doctor. Not uncommon at a GP, no. But in the UK they’ve got this 10 minute rule for each patient and as far as I can tell they stick doggedly to it. If you haven’t got all your ailments seen to in the allotted ten minutes, they tell you to make another appointment. I’m not kidding.
Now I consider myself fairly patient, and admittedly I was slightly entertained in the waiting room watching a mum give her young daughter tough love as she continually stuffed up tying her shoe laces (the kid, not the mum), but I was left to wonder why I had to wait half an hour. I saw the woman who went in before me to “my” doctor leave ten minutes after my appointed time. What was he doing? Paperwork? Toilet? Internet surfing for a new job? The waiting room was now empty but for me and a guy with the buttons of his fly undone (what’s the correct procedure there by the way, do you tell people?). Hurry the hell up will ya!! I’m an unemployed bum, I’ve got things to do, blogs to write, freshly scented bathroom odours to destroy. Geesh. Continue reading