Hello Ladies

Poor old Portia has got to that sort of age when the female organs tend to seize up a bit and get troublesome. So today was the day when she had to push off to the local NHS-erry and get passed fit to undergo surgery.

I faced this visit with no small trepidation because my brushes with the medical profession tend to go thus.

Me - Hello Doctor

Doctor - You are too fat

Me - its about my sinuses

Doctor - You are too fat, eat less

Me - but they hurt

Doctor - You are too fat, so it serves you right, eat less, in fact, why not have your jaws wired for six months then you will die and save the NHS lots of money on its budgets.

Me - Thank you Doctor, my sinuses feel much better now.

I then leave the surgery as quickly as possible before doctor draws out machete and performs fat reducing surgery without anaesthetic.

I was firmly convinced that I would attend hospital and be told that the medical profession didn't dare give me anything stronger than an aspirin because my Body Mass Index is a teensy bit high. Ergo I would have to undergo surgery without anaesthetic, having first been strapped to the table to stop struggling, gagged to avoid cries of pain and suffering and blindfolded so I couldnt see the drunken butcher of a surgeon lurching in in his blood-stained rubber apron, wiping off his huge knife with a germ-infested bloody rag before cutting off my right leg.

I arrived at the hospital and, after being directed to the wrong end of the building by a well-meaning hospital volunteer, I found the pre-operative department.  I was directed to sit in a waiting room full of sick people and I sat, seriously reconsidering my principles against private medicine, and prepared myself for a very long wait.

No sooner had I got out my iPod and found a year old copy of a celebrity magazine, I was called to be seen by Dr Finklestein.  Imagine the relief when Dr Finklestein turned out to have a body mass index in excess of mine! As he hauled his rotund little self out of his chair to say hello I virtually fell upon his neck crying 'Thank God!! a fellow fattie' - but managed to maintain a measure of composure.

The cheery Dr Finklestein assured me that he would pump me so full of all sorts of lovely drugs that I would not wake up for at least a week, I wouldn't feel a thing and would go around with a smile on my face for three months after my little op.  Heartened by his positive attitude, I confided my fears about drunken butchers.  Dr Finklestein assured me that Mr Shah (who would be wielding the knife) was rather a devout muslim, ergo, he did not drink. 

I blessed the wonders of cultural diversity at this point and reflected that I had indeed hit the cultural jackpot with my surgical team.  A fat, jolly jewish anaesthetist whose sole purpose in life was getting me as out of my head as possible - coupled with a sober muslim surgeon whose hands would not shake with alcoholic tremor.  I decided that all I needed now was a comforting West Indian nurselady and a gay Irish trolleypusher cracking Oscar Wilde-ish epigrams as he crashed me through the doors of the operating threatre - and my comfort would be complete.

Now, as long as they don't remove my right leg - I should be all right.

God bless the National Health Service.

Portia