My attempt to have a small cyst removed from the spaniel was always going to be fraught with difficulty. My vets are in a posh area of London and have a name that sounds like a multinational reinsurance broker. This is because similar amounts of money go through their books.
To save their blushes, let’s call them Simon Fleece and Associates. When I call, the line rings a few times, then there is a pause before it begins to ring again in a different tone. When it answers, a girl says: ‘Simon Fleece and Associates answering service how may I help?’ My formerly friendly local vet is now so big and money-grubbing it has a separate call centre to take overflow calls, I realise. I am very, very scared.
I tell her I want to book an appointment and she says she will take my details and the time I want and get the receptionists to call me back to confirm. First I suggest 4.30 p.m. the next day and then, when I realise I can’t make that, I say: ‘Actually, I need to make it later.’
And she says: ‘So, do you want to move the appointment forward or back?’
‘Forward. No back. No, wait, I can’t work out which. But, as I say, I want to make it later than 4.30 p.m.’
‘I’m sorry, but I do need to get this clear,’ she says testily. ‘Do you want to move the appointment forward or back?’
‘I want an appointment later than 4.30,’ I say.
‘All right, there’s no need to be rude,’ she says, availing herself of her human rights already. ‘So you want to move the appointment forward?’
‘Do I?’ I say, my head aching from the mental effort of divining whether later than 4.30
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