Nepotism in the NHS

A few weeks ago, as I was hobbling on crutches into our local NHS hospital for a spot of rehabilitory circuit training, I took a wrong turning. Suddenly I found myself walking down what seemed like an endless corridor with only a few zombie-like waterbottle-carrying members of staff, some broken beds, and the pungent odour of boiled cabbage for company.

Struggling past the challengingly-named Maxillofacial, Orthotics and Endocrine units, my new hip was in need of a rest. I spotted a vacant seat in an adjacent waiting room but thought twice about sitting down when I discovered that I had just entered the 'Discharge Lounge'.

Fortunately a wheechair was at hand in the nearby 'Department of Portering' outside of which was, in true Nu-Labour style, a board with the names and photographs of smiling senior members of staff. It was interesting to note that, other than Ian Manager, the names were John Supervisor, Andy Supervisor, Graham Supervisor, Peter Supervisor and Phil Supervisor.

It's good to see that nepotism in the NHS is alive and kicking.

The Best a Man can get

I am currently stuck in the UK for a period of enforced R&R - recuperation and rehabilitation - following a hip replacement, and cabin fever is starting to set in.

My day seems to consist of popping pain killers, injecting my stomach to prevent DVT and nostalgically tucking into Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney pies whilst hopping around on crutches in a shell suit and a rather elegant pair of surgical stockings. The only respite from the confines of my padded cell is when a sympathetic neighbour takes me to the local Tescos and I race through the aisles on the complimentary mobility scooter, terrorizing other shoppers.

I also have to report that I have joined the ranks of young mothers, students and the unemployed in becoming addicted to day-time TV. Waking up to Holly Willoughby may be no bad thing but I am embarrassed to admit that I have become a dab hand at solving 9 letter anagrams in less than 30 seconds and spotting a bargain at an antiques fair. Moreover I now know how to turn my attic into cash in order to fund the wedding dress of my teenage gypsy bride and the DNA test of my allegedly illegitimate child.

And, perhaps worst of all, I have recently found myself reciting the straplines of various advertisements under my breath. Is this really the best a man can get?

A Haven for the Hypochondriac

For men of a certain age, waking with a tingling in the nether regions may initially provoke a nostalgic frisson of excitement but, when the tingling morphs into a constant dull pain, paranoia sets in – is it a hernia, maybe prostate problems or, even worse, the dreaded testicular cancer? Such was my dilemma at the beginning of the year.

After several sleepless nights and much soul-searching, I plucked up the courage to phone the Centro Diagnostico in Motril and book an appointment. The Centro, of which there are several throughout Andalucia, is exactly what it says on the tin – a diagnostic centre full of up to date medical hardware including PET and MRI scanners. For a (very reasonable) fee, you simply check yourself in, have the relevant scan/test and you are then given a comprehensive report with images to pass on to your GP or Consultant. A great idea, especially for us hypochondriacs.

Oh, for the record, my tackle is still intact but the scan showed that my hips are shot. The Centro is not simply a haven for the hypochondriac after all.