‘Next!’ shouted the bouffant-haired lady dressed in a terrifyingly crisp green and white skirt suit. She was sitting behind the glass-screened reception desk of the private hospital where my mother had just had her knee replaced.
This formidable dame I took to be a positive sign of the excellence of a healthcare establishment where one can simply buy and have competently fitted a titanium knee, without the need to beg the state to botch you one up for free, and throw in MRSA.
This place was bright, white and sparklingly clean, and I would be happier to spend a weekend within its walls than at some budget hotels. It was nicer than a Travelodge or a Premier Inn but not quite as nice as a Ramada.
It was as nice as the sort of slightly above average quality minibreak hotel that has non-branded mini shampoos in the shower.
It was not as nice as the Princess Grace Hospital in Marylebone, but where is? I once had the pleasure of having some keyhole surgery there and while I was waiting to go to theatre a butler in full black tie came to see what I would like when I came round. Smoked salmon sandwiches, perhaps?
The builder boyfriend grabbed the menu and ordered himself a three-course dinner. They had trouble moving him on so I could have the bed back.
Obviously, if I could have afforded to go on paying for Bupa I’d be having much more of that. I’d have my bunions done, for a start. But I couldn’t afford the increased premiums, so I’ve had to make do with the NHS telling me breathtakingly rudely that absolutely everything that’s wrong with me, including my bunions, is nothing to do with them.
They told my mother the same thing about her haemorrhaging knee, which got so bad they were draining it every two weeks until she had to dig into her savings to buy herself a new one.
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