Nicer!

The Norfolk and Norwich Hospital presents as a curiously rambling affair, erected as it was upon the disputed intersection of three of Britain's most ancient ley-lines. One can say whatever one likes about these wondrous and deeply misunderstood pathways but they do tend to wreak havoc with one's sense of time.

It's oft been said, where such slippery things as timescales are concerned, that particular sections of the hospital are now so wildly out of kilter with others that the whole structure appears to wink, not unlike the dying embers of some sort of immense bonfire, when viewed from the outer fringes of the Earth's atmosphere. Astronomical sources can be notoriously difficult to pin down on the subject, but simply glimpsing that infamous knowing smile from Alfred Watkins, in his last televised interview on the subject of those, "ancient pathways," can be hauntingly spine tingling!



Truly, there are staff who have been working at the hospital, since almost the turn of the century, who have yet to discover the whereabouts of the oft-whispered-about Shaman(ism)ology Department, despite its well-documented and relatively pellucid referral system. Honest to God, if one stands upon the 'right' corridor junction and squints, somewhat obliquely to the east, it's almost as if the world is washed clean again, and once more free from sin. But, enough of all this nonsense...

... Let it suffice to be written that fully seven hours were duly recorded upon my own peculiar timepiece, despite what other contradictory sources may have implied. And, during my seven hour experience no fewer than three separate departments were visited.



We commenced our stint in the Venous Thromboembolism Department, where a delightful gentleman finally stamped his determined foot and said, "Enough is enough!" Such was his disillusionment with the practice of validating rat poison (Warfarin) as an NHS drug that he duly whisked the decision well out of reach of the NHS accountants. Whilst grinding the patient's remaining tablets under the heel of an angry shoe, he fiercely penned a prescription for a far more viable alternative, something by the name of Rivaroxaban. Yet early in the day and already the 'visit' was bearing impressive fruit.

Altogether far more alarming, one Chloe Smith- the Spirit of Christmas Cancelled- was witnessed to ghost along one corridor, tape measure flapping hungrily in hand. Speculation has it that, if she can tie at least four 'adjacent' departments to the same approximate real estate epoch, she's already identified several interested private 'investors' simply biting-at-the-bit to carve-up the place.



Our second port of call would have been that of the Radiology Department, specifically for yet more X-rays. Should 'we' be able to persuade the technician (at next week's MRI) to incorporate the patient's feet and 'we'll' have a complete composite body set, replete with 3,000 bonus loyalty points; saving up for that replacement knee joint. I swear to God, that at one particularly unsettling moment, I found myself staring open-mouthed along a gently undulating quaking aspen ride, facing towards an altogether brighter and more youthful sun. Had an orderly not punctured the bubble, by enquiring if I was lost, I feel that I'd still be there, adrift somewhere upon the mists of time.

Armed with the shield of truth- no longer its former proud acetate self, now merely a sad ciber-replica- our final port of call was the much-heralded Rheumatology Department, where angry needles were drawn and thrust unlovingly into the very joints of the now waning patient. Staunch and brave she was, whereas I had to excuse myself, under the pretext of fetching the earlier prescribed spoils. In my absence magical steroidal potions were wafted invitingly before the patient's eyes.



Ultimately, stiff as the competition genuinely was, it had to be Rheumatology that won the day and the purse. With sandwiches and several cups of tea on offer- for the patient and her companion- and seats that actually reclined, Rheumatology rightly won this lady's favour.

'Tis to be hoped that frittering away the private 'investor's' spoils, with such cavalier disregard, might perchance one day manage to exorcise the ghosts of such as Ms Smith, that the once mighty (now besieged) NHS might once again soar!