Living for Disco

I had two jabs this morning: rabies and meningitis. I toyed with the idea of Yellow Fever, but it’s expensive, and apparently not rife in Namibia. Which is nice.

Time is galloping forward. I spent much of this weekend at a VSO luxury retreat and spa, complete with its own gourmet restaurant, the menu designed for maximum healthiness – not a speck of lard in sight. The bar serves a selection of fine wines, and you are pampered and cosseted the whole time. It’s bliss.

I like Harborne Hall, as VSO like to call this oasis of calm. It reminds me of my first halls of residence at university: single bed, endless winding corridors that smell of bleach, and stodge all round for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Which is good, because even though you’re sitting down almost all the time during the courses, all the volunteers emerge ravenous, and climb over each other to get into the dining room, where the day’s offering - fried haddock, chips and peas, washed down with sponge and custard - is put away in a matter of seconds.

I sometimes wonder what it must be like for international volunteers who haven’t grown up with the UK’s standard institutional fare. I can almost see their confused faces, gazing in wonder at a piece of lamb hotpot skewered on the end of their forks, threatening to glop gravy and unidentified flying vegetable over their laps.

Anyway, with that random piece of head-space nicely popped onto the page, I’m off to have a cup of tea, and work on recruiting my replacement.

I’ve mentioned in earlier post how much I loathe my doctor, and despite Claypot’s fine advice, I didn’t get around to asking Lewisham NHS to reassign me. Oh, how I wish I’d filled in that form and sent it off.

I have to get a medical for VSO, before I can even think of going anywhere. This should be done by the GP that currently holds your medical records – the folder that contains my life as the NHS know it. Unfortunately, as he mentioned last time I went to see him, he does not have this folder. He suggested that it might be stuck in the system somewhere, but that he was sure it was on its way.

I phoned this morning to book in for a medical, and asked whether he had received my file yet. Instantly he starts being loathsome. First off he point-blank refused to give me a medical, and told me to go and get one done at BUPA. Then he said I had to go and get a smear test from “a lady doctor – someone in another practise will do that for you”, despite the fact that I had one not 18 months ago. Not that he’d know this, having lost my medical records (more on this later). He then said that he would not do any blood tests unless I was ‘indicating symptoms’. Of what? Chest pains, apparently. He told me that he was not authorised to do any tests like this unless I complained of something specific, which I know is a lie. I said “So, you wouldn’t be prepared to…”, and he begin shouting at me. Then he put the phone down.

I phoned back to find out what had happened to my medical records, and he refused to speak to me. Then his receptionist hung up on me too. So I’ve been on a wild goose chase all morning round the NHS offices, trying to find my medical records. The upshot is that they have been sent to him, and he has lost them. I am lodging an official complaint.

I thought doctors were supposed to alleviate distress, not exacerbate it. The man should be struck off.