NHS Sunday? Prepare to die of boredom!

I had the dubious honour of spending Sunday up in the Ulster Hospital. Don’t worry I’m fine; it was my “significant other” who was banjaxed. Or to phrase it in the terms of those of a sturdier disposition, she had a “dodgy finger”. In fairness to the girl, she had already been to the GP to have it looked at and was given antibiotics, which hadn’t worked. Naturally this played straight into the hands of her “hypocondrian sensibilities” and ensured that my Sunday afternoon was written off as a lost cause.

As a man, who is more than familiar with the present state of the NHS, I was already aware that a Sunday afternoon probably isn’t the best time to go the hospital. Sadly my girlfriend’s finger was on the brink of falling off – or at least that what she indicated was due to happen – so I was unable to persuade her, that perhaps going in the middle of the week, would be a slightly more opportune time.

Since I was destined to end up in a hospital, I figured that “the Ulster” was less likely to be filled with the usual plethora of Saturday night casualties. As it happened my instincts were bang on the money, and the expectant scene of carnage didn’t materialise. My first thought was that we could possibly be sitting in the U.K.’s only utopian NHS hospital; but as it happened and in traditional NHS fashion, they managed to ensure that the stereotype was rigidly maintained.

As would be expected, the waiting area is a no smoking zone, which to my mind is ridiculous as a hospital waiting area is possibly the best place to suffer from a smoking related malfunction. Naturally, as we already know, times have changed and we just have to roll with the punches. All that is, with the acceptance of the hospital staff, who according to the many large posters now lining the walls of the waiting area, are exempt from being punched.
Naturally, it is easy to see the reasoning behind this and when you have only been sitting there for roughly 30 minutes you are inclined to agree with the sentiment. However, after the 3-hour mark, you quickly find yourself switching sides in the “war on NHS violence” and begin looking for somebody to strike.
Perhaps the answer to this scourge - which apparently is a blight on the NHS - would be to start treating patients within a reasonable time frame and not leave them like lost souls in a perpetual state of purgatory.

Anyway, after about 3½ hours, two doctors and an X-ray, we were told that it was a mild tissue infection, and promptly dispatched back onto the street with a little tube of magic cream. I can only hope it works, because I really can’t face another Sunday as provided by an NHS waiting room.