As the double-decker bus cruises past, one old lady sitting on the lower deck and two teenagers on the top deck, the dog goes mad and tries to pull me off my feet. The strains of Freddie Mercury singing “Fat Bottomed Girls” through my headphones is drowned out by the combined decibels of a now-barking Cocker Spaniel and a large diesel engine, underlined by the wind noise generated by a house-sized object moving through the air at forty mph. Fortunately as I weigh about 800 stone the dog hasn’t got a hope of disturbing my equilibrium although my mental pondering is slightly interrupted.
This morning the hire car gleefully stated ‘danger of ice’ followed by -2 degrees C on the display. This evening feels at least that cold. The dog doesn’t seem to mind. We’re walking fairly briskly round the normal hour-long route which takes in homes, shops, homes, more shops, more homes, more shops, well… you get the idea. I’m pondering over the evening – a 50-mile rush home from work followed by almost literally throwing Mini-GT and Micro-GT into the car and proceeding at some speed to the ‘Walk-In Centre’ at the hospital.
The phrase ‘Walk-In Centre’ might lead you to the erroneous assumption that it was (a) Central and (b) you could just walk in. Oh no. That would mean following some kind of logic. Yes, it is (a) Central, but you have to go through the tedious process of calling NHS Direct to “make an appointment” to (b) walk in.
Well, Micro-GT has a temperature approaching 40 degrees, according to the nice branded in-ear instant thermometer purchased last year for just such an occasion, so Mrs G-T called NHS Direct and made “an appointment” to attend the “Walk-In” Centre. Obviously you do actually have to walk in as the receptionists tend to take a dim view when you park the car in the waiting room.
However, after an hour and a half of waiting with a fractious, overheated 10-month old, a tired and fractious four year old and a tired and post-natal thirty-mmpff year old I’m prepared to consider such attention-seeking behaviour in order to speed up the process of being acknowledged by someone in the building who is actually a member of staff. Yes, they “booked us in” when we arrived but since then nothing much appears to have happened. When we notice someone who entered the building after us being seen by a doctor I wander over to reception.
“Can I help you?”
I briefly wonder about how to answer this question: “Is the Pope Catholic?”; “Do Bears…etc. etc.”; “No thanks – I just wondered what would happen if I stood here.”
I settle for the inevitably British, “I’m a bit concerned that people after us in the queue are being seen before us.” Dammit, I should have added, to at least make it sound a bit out of the ordinary.
“Ah, yes sir. That’s because they have actually made an appointment to be seen by a Doctor. Your child is on the Nurses list.”
I point out that we actually made an appointment to see a doctor, and that we’ve been waiting more than an hour and a half with a fractious, overheated baby.
“Oh.”
Clearly they moved us to the head of the queue because it was only another hour and fifteen minutes before our youngest son’s name was beautifully mispronounced via the PA system.
Mrs GT takes Micro-GT into Consulting Room 1. Mini G-T and I settle down to wait. Barely 45 seconds later they’re back out. Chest infection apparently. Keep him cool, put a fan in his bedroom, don’t turn on the central heating. Apparently the rest of the GT family can all freeze to death as far as the doctor is concerned. The hire car is still confirming it’s deep freeze temperature display as we commence the journey home at rather more restrained pace.
Only the mad dash across town to find a pharmacy open at 10pm, the inevitable trip to McDonalds (aargh!) and walking the dog to go before settling down to sleep. And then I decide that there’s just time to write a blog entry…