‘Next!’ shouted the bouffant-haired lady dressed in a terrifyingly crisp green and white skirt suit. She was sitting behind the glass-screened reception desk of the private hospital where my mother had just had her knee replaced.
This formidable dame I took to be a positive sign of the excellence of a healthcare establishment where one can simply buy and have competently fitted a titanium knee, without the need to beg the state to botch you one up for free, and throw in MRSA.
This place was bright, white and sparklingly clean, and I would be happier to spend a weekend within its walls than at some budget hotels. It was nicer than a Travelodge or a Premier Inn but not quite as nice as a Ramada.
It was as nice as the sort of slightly above average quality minibreak hotel that has non-branded mini shampoos in the shower.
It was not as nice as the Princess Grace Hospital in Marylebone, but where is? I once had the pleasure of having some keyhole surgery there and while I was waiting to go to theatre a butler in full black tie came to see what I would like when I came round.
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