Two months after my car accident, I was examined today by a doctor in order to get a medical report written up for the claim. The appointment was at a local private hospital instead of the NHS hospital down the road. I've never been to a private hospital in the UK, and I was very curious to see what it was like.
The outside looked like an old manor home. Well, I guess the name Manor Hospital should have clued me into that one, right? It was very quiet inside, with prim staff and older patients in the waiting room. My wild, noisy children, bulky buggy and harrowed expression fit in about as well as Victoria Beckham auditioning for Joker in the next Batman movie. My favourite part, aside from bribing my children with sweets in front of a full waiting room or chasing my son away from the lift or coffee machine, was when a nurse berated me for sending my daughter to the toilet. That's right folks, I was "Mommy Drive-By"-ed by a medical professional for allowing my four year old to go to the bathroom on her own.
The examination itself didn't last too long, and we were out of there in about forty minutes. Because we don't have a car right now, I had to take a taxi and paid over £10 all told for the experience.
To be fair to my children, they were not ill-behaved as such. It's not like they were screaming like banshees and running amok in the medical supply cupboard. They are normal kids, and especially after our London excursion yesterday, I didn't expect much. I'm just tired of adults without children, or fully grown children, expecting near-robotic behaviour from young ones. It's just not going to happen, is it? Relax, people. I'm doing the best I can here!
Give me an NHS hospital, with paint peeling off the walls and snotty children jumping on the chairs any day. We would fit right in.