Dreaming in the Clinicians' Den.

I won’t be going for a follow-up blood pressure test at the surgery next Tuesday after all (see last Tuesday’s post.) I decided it was all a bit silly and cancelled it, in consequence of which I thought I would have next Tuesday free. I was wrong. I got a letter today calling me for an appointment to something called the Rapid Access Chest Pain Clinic – NURSE LED – Cardiology at the hospital. I’ve no idea what they’re planning to do with me, but I hope the leading nurse is responsive to my childish banter. I mean, what fun is there to be had in the clinicians’ den if your childish banter falls on deaf ears, gets deflected into the nearest urine bottle, and is never heard of again?

What I find most irritating about going to the hospital, though, is the car parking. There are seven car parks at the Royal Derby, and there have been times when I’ve driven straight into one. But there have been other times when I’ve had to queue for as long as forty minutes. And that means you have to make sure you reach the hospital at least forty minutes – preferably a little more – before your appointment time. What are you supposed to do if you’re lucky with the parking and reach the clinic forty minutes early?

If that happens I suppose I’ll have to park myself on a bench in the main corridor, pay some exorbitant fee for a plastic cup of hot chocolate from a vending machine, feast my eyes on the young nurses walking past, and pretend I’m on a beach in Tahiti. I’m quite good at imagining things when I’m bored, and it’s the only way you can carry on living inside your own head when the outside world insists on reeling you in like a luckless fish.