A day in London you’d think for pleasure. But as you know for me it’s a medicalness.

It should have been so simple and well orchestrated.

1. Meeting the CEO etc at a newly requisitioned ( by BUPA) hospital. A hospital where I’ve been an inmate many a time ! For some reason I’m on their Patient Participation Group.
2. Then I was to have a scan – just a few doors down in NHS land called WMS.
3. I was also to get bloods done as instructed by Prof Nephrology
4. To get new medication from pharmacy at WMS as instructed by Prof Neph
5. Just to coverall I was hoping to get an MSU too since I was there.

Easy and well planned.

My day began with a meeting with the CEO and assorted senior folk. It was exceptionally well attended, interesting and, perhaps most importantly, reassuring. There was plenty of discussion about patient experience, future plans and how things might be improved.

Then came the moment that nearly finished me off.

One of the complaints raised, in this otherwise rather lovely corner of BUPA-Land, concerned the quality of the crème caramel.

The crème caramel.

Not waiting times. Not communications. Not clinical outcomes.

The crème caramel.

I sat there trying very hard to maintain the appropriate expression of concern while wondering how to stifle my giggles .

Now, to be fair, there was one thing that genuinely annoys me: the website. It has annoyed me for years. As a live demonstration, I showed them that Jerome cannot be found using their search facility. Given that he is, inconveniently, one of their consultants, this struck me as a slight design flaw. It may explain why he may wonder why his clinic lists are empty if they are !

My point was not criticism. Merely an observation that perhaps things could be done a little better.

Rookie error.

Within minutes I found myself promoted to the IT Review Committee.

Serves me right for opening my mouth.

Next stop: blood tests. NHS land

Unfortunately the computer system, was “down”.

This meant patients were issued tickets from one of those supermarket dispensing machines.

“Deli counter?” I asked.

“Bloods.”

“Two chipolatas and a chicken breast please.”

Nobody laughed.

Healthcare can be a very serious business.

I then attempted to provide a urine sample.

“Ah,” said Reception. “You can’t do that yet.”

“Why not?”

“You need a full bladder for the scan.”

“Indeed,” said I. “But after the first part of the scan my bladder will no longer be full, which would make it rather difficult to produce a specimen for the second part.”

They remained unconvinced.

I abandoned the discussion.

At this point, by complete chance, along wandered Mr Dipstick in his surgical pyjamas.

He looked slightly discombobulated.

“Am I seeing you today?” he asked.

“No.”

There followed one of those gloriously confusing medical conversations that leave both parties less informed than when they started.

We discussed the clinical trial we’re both involved in.

He explained he could arrange it privately but thought I should obtain it through the NHS. Possibly at his hospital. Or perhaps another hospital.

“Do you need anything from me?” he asked.

“Iairil.”

“Ah yes.”

A flicker of recognition.

Apparently he is supposed to source it. Or perhaps I am supposed to source it. Or perhaps we are both supposed to source it independently and then compare notes.

By now neither of us seemed entirely certain what the plan was.

Are you confused?

Me too.

Eventually he wandered off.

The scan beckoned.

No sample pots were permitted in the scanning department.

Clearly desperate times called for desperate measures.

I managed a swift grab towards the nurses’ station and liberated an abandoned specimen container.

The scan proceeded as scans always do.

Then came the announcement.

“Oh, you know you haven’t got a kidney on the right?”

Well bugger me.

I wonder where I left it.

You can misplace your glasses. You can misplace your keys.

A whole kidney feels somewhat ambitious.

With the missing-organ situation duly acknowledged, bladder emptying commenced and Part Two proceeded successfully.

At least I assume it was successful.

The sonographer’s contribution to conversation measured precisely zero words.

Sample deposited.

P

Label obtained from a blue tray specifically designated for such labels.

Onwards.

Pharmacy next.

More ticket machines.

More form filling.

Any allergies?

Any medications?

Any new symptoms?

At this point I was tempted to write:

“Please see literally every report you’ve generated about me in the last decade.”

Fortunately my ticket was called quickly.

Possibly because there were only three chairs available and I was sitting on the floor.

The pharmacist took one look at the prescription.

“We don’t have that drug here.”

“But Professor So-and-So told me to come here.”

“I’m sending you to the Tower.”

This announcement generated considerable amusement among nearby patients.

Apparently they knew she meant the main hospital building.

I, naturally, began speculating about beheadings.

Interestingly, nobody found this as funny as I did.

Getting there involved a passing cab

Even more astonishingly, the fare was £0.

Some sort of app was scanned and off I went.

At the Tower, despite the pharmacy’s promise to call ahead, nobody had the faintest idea why I had arrived.

This did not surprise me.

A fresh ticket was obtained.

Further explanations were exchanged.

Various people disappeared and reappeared carrying pieces of paper.

Eventually, through a combination of perseverance, goodwill and administrative archaeology, we worked out what was actually needed.

And thus ended another entirely ordinary day navigating the parallel kingdoms of BUPA-Land and NHS-Land, where consultants cannot be found on websites, kidneys occasionally go missing, pharmacy departments send patients to Towers, and the greatest healthcare complaint of all may yet be the crème caramel.

You really couldn’t make it up!