The wonderful NHS
Yesterday I had a portion of blood sucked out of me for the second time in three months. This time, I had to go to the hospital to have it done. I didn't have to have an appointment-I could turn up anytime between 9 and 11am. In theory, this is a good thing, as you don't have to rush around to get there. The downside is, depending on when you get there, you can be waiting a very long time. For someone who is still relatively new to having blood tests and who hasn't set foot in the hospital as a patient since they were eight years old this isn't the most pleasant of experiences.
I decided to get there for 9.05, as I thought the sooner I got there, the sooner I could be seen and get out of there. Unfortunately for me, there were many others who had the same idea. When I got to reception I showed them my referral form. In return, I was given a number-the number 41, to be exact. I felt like the guy out of the Prisoner. I ended up sitting next to number 39 and 42, in a small, crowded waiting area, away from all the "proper" patients who had actual appointments.
One by one, the patients were herded in like cattle, coming out a minute later, or in some cases five, depending on (a) how they were feeling and (b) how long it took them to get their coat off and their sleeve rolled up. The longer I had to wait, the more nervous I became. I almost felt like seeing if I could persuade someone to swap numbers with me. Finally, my number was called, an hour after I arrived. The deed was done and I emerged from the room with a blob of cotton wool stuck down with about half a metre of Micropore tape on my left arm. I felt a sense of relief (1) that it was all over and (2)that I didn't have to wait two hours to have it done as it said I might have to on the notice on the hospital entrance door. Hopefully, I won't have to have another for a while, but if I do, I hope I get a number no higher than 15!
