Melissa Kite’s Real life
After three hours waiting, I am taken into a cubicle to be told by Nurse Ratched that there is nothing she can do. ‘Dermatology is not an emergency,’ she says sadistically, as I sit scratching myself into small pieces in front of her.
‘If I cut my hands off to stop them itching will that make it an emergency?’ I ask.
‘You’re very agitated,’ she says, with a scheming look. She intimates that she can probably have me committed to a secure mental ward if I continue to demand treatment from the NHS on a Saturday. So I leave. It’s time for the private sector.
I phone my celebrity dietician friend and he tells me to get myself to the Princess Grace near Harley Street. It has a private A&E, which is worth visiting if only to infuriate one’s socialist friends.
Within seconds of arriving I’m being treated by a handsome young doctor who diagnoses the precise form of eczema I have by phoning the consultant at home. He then dispenses the goods. ‘Steroids can make you feel euphoric,’ he says, with a reassuringly public school swagger.
A few seconds after swallowing the pills I start to giggle. I feel a huge surge of relief and wellbeing. I tell the doctor but he says it is unlikely the steroids have kicked in that quickly. ‘Is it possible I’m feeling euphoric from the instant private medicine?’ I ask.
He nods. That is a very common reaction, he confirms. After settling the bill — an unbelievably cheap £100 — I gambol out into the street. I want to kiss the man who holds open the door, I want to kiss the man I bump into as I go through the door, I want to kiss the old lady I encounter on the ramp.
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