Taking a look at the grey matter

 We were discussing the pros and cons of the NHS right here on this Sailing to Purgatory blog site just a few days ago – the good and an example of the gross

I arrived at Kingston Hospital an hour or two ago for a brain scan – a ‘CT Head’, as they put it so, well, quaintly. I wondered what to expect in a sort of radio wave attack, particularly in such a vulnerable region.

I had arrived early, of course, as good manners dictate. Until that moment, I hadn’t realised so many frail people could be collected in a random – and cold and wet – afternoon.

An army of them were waiting, some apparently near collapse, to take advantage of a great variety of services.

Not a happy woman

The hospital looked madly busy so I expected a delay. How long might it be, I asked the receptionist for the scanning department.

‘Probably about 20 minutes,’ she said. ‘You sit over there. Someone will call you.’

I sat over there, and hardly had the laptop out of my backpack before someone began chanting my name.

The caller, some distance off, didn’t look a happy woman. I walked over, hoping to cheer her up, at least somewhat. I failed. I must follow her.

The old NHS identification ritual followed – one I thought that they’d abandoned. When was my birthday. I gave the day and month. Yes, but the year? What about yours, I asked. She wasn’t amused, and turned as if to point to the exit.

The year, she insisted. I mentioned that almost anyone could have discovered it and offered it, so what sort of security point was that? She couldn’t have been less interested. The year. Give me the year. Tempers seems frayed. I thought of an angry brain being scanned. I surrendered.

On the scanning table

Then my address was necessary. Finding someone’s address would be even easier for an imposter. However, who in their right unscanned mind would want a brain scan in someone else’s name. Then I imagined the risk of an angry nurses turning up the dial to give the grey matter a frizzle. I submitted.

I was laid out on the scanning table, an adjustment or two made, and she turned to go. Might I be stretched out for an hour, or two, or more? A few minutes, she said.

Happily, a second lady joined us. She might have been the boss. She was pleasant and in a reassuring mood. It seemed the head mightn’t be fried after all. The women vanished...Continues on the blogs for my ocean adventure book, Sailing to Purgatory, at SailingToPurgatory.com