The GP’s surgery...

Monday

T HE GP is most patients’ first port of call when they have a health worry. But with the NHS all at sea without a paddle, just getting to speak to a doctor is far from plain sailing. After donning a false beard and affecting a thick West Midlands accent, I go to my local surgery at 11.30am to ask for an appointment. Barely looking up from her computer except to smile and ask me how she can help, the woman on reception informs me that there are no available slots until 10.30 the following morning. In a loud voice, I explain that I have discovered a lump in one of my testicles and I am at my wits’ end with worry. Feigning concern, the receptionist makes a quick phone call before telling me that the doctor will see me at the end of morning surgery, during her lunch hour. Ta king a seat, I watch a dismal procession of malingerers shuffling in and out of the door of Surgery 1. When the GP finally deigns to grant me an audience, I check my watch and realise I have been waiting for nearly 45 minutes - time that, had my lump been real, I would have been able to ill afford. Clearly masking her annoyance at having her precious lunch hour interrupted by a mere patient, the GP invites me in. “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” she smiles disingenuously. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to put your mind at rest. Generally, these things turn out to be nothing to worry about.” Nothing to worry about for her, I’m sure. But she hasn’t got a pretend lump in her testicles. After I tell her that I am too shy to undress in front of her, the doctor feels my testicles through my underpants, her finger and thumb eventually alighting on the conker I have sellotaped to my scrotum. She furrows her brow, feigning concern. “It does feel rather hard,” she says. “I think it’s best if we get that looked at sooner rather than later. I’ll book you in for an ultrasound scan at the hospital straight away.” Clearly desperate to get rid of me so she can tuck into her lunch, she gets on the phone right away and books me an emergency outpatients consultation for 2.30 that afternoon. Her words of reassurance just moments earlier are now shown up as nothing more than hot air. Needless to say, I have no intention of keeping this unnecessary appointment; it’s just another example of wastage in Britain’s already overstretched NHS. As I leave the health centre, rummaging in my pants to remove the conker as I make my way through the waiting room, I reflecton the poor treatment I have received. GPs spend their days dishing out prescriptions, but here’s one for them to take three times a day after meals: We don’t pay you to keep us waiting and then lie to us. It’s time to pull your fingers out and do your job.