In my quest for a diagnosis I was sent to the Dermatology clinic in Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.
Across the road an off-licence had a notice in the window which read ‘A recession is no excuse for drinking bad wine.’
A consultant, who looked oddly like a chubby bald Hugh Firmly-Wherewithall, whisked in like a whirlwind, followed by an attendant doctor with a clipboard, took one look at me and pronounced a diagnosis.
He then sent in a photographer to take copious pictures of me, and whisked out again.
The photographer got me to sign a form and I asked jokingly, if they were going to turn up on Facebook. He grinned nervously and backed away out of the room.
This hospital is a little odd, since it runs in number allocation fashion. I was sent for blood tests and had to take a ticket from a machine which I swear used to be on the old Safeways deli counter.
Waiting for my prescription they had an Argos style number screen and a voice-over in the manner of ‘Will patient 237 go to collection point C please?’
I was number 254 and had to wait another hour until my medication was dispensed so I had a walk around, and watched the fish in the fifteen foot long tank in the lobby.
I’ve had another acceptance of publication and my work will be appearing in the next issue of ‘The South’.