WARNING - this blog contains matter that those of a sensitive nature may find distressing.
I had a mini adventure today as part of my ongoing diabetic saga, and my travails with the administration of the NHS.
I have to have five blood-tests between now and Yuletide. Four of these tests are for exactly the same things, but, because they are requested by different departments, they must all be done separately. Arranging a blood-test in my part of North London is no easy task. I can call Finchley Memorial Hospital, but they rarely answer the telephone and it is generally a 3-4 week wait for an appointment. Edgware Community Hospital is easier to get an appointment, but it takes a long time to get there. Chase Farm Hospital has a turn up and wait system and you only usually wait an hour, but is difficult to get to, and there is a portal to the underworld there. So I went to Barnet - a long way, but you can book an appointment online. So, of I went, and duly proffered by arm for the taken of seven vials of blood.
I was rather taken aback when the phlebotomist asked me if I had bought my urine sample. My letter had not advised me that a urine sample was needed. My consultant had not asked for one. The phlebotomist kindly gave me a bottle and told me to go and produce a sample.
I ambled off to the nearby toilet and thought of running water. I did not want to go. I had no need to go. I could not go. I also could not go back and say I could not go. I sat down and tried to think of something else, and found myself reciting the mediæval queens of France. I had barely got to Blanche of Castile when I felt the need to go.
Excitedly, I grabbed the little plastic bottle thing (they are tiny and extremely difficult to use) and immediately the urge passed. Frustrated, I put the bottle back down, which is when I realised I had been holding it upside down. I need not tell you how unfortunate the ending of this tale could have been!
Depressed, I readied myself to return to the phlebotomist, ready to face her wrath, her resigned frustration, and her mirth at my inability to produce a small urine sample. I washed my hands anxiously, trying to think of something to say. So anxious did this make me that I felt a sudden urge...
Needless to say, I was relieved and triumphant as I handed over a gleaming bottle to the phlebotomist, and decided to reward myself with a trip to the coffee shop.