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.
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