Adding insult to injury is perhaps one of mankind's most frequent and telling failings: we hurt and we harm, then we mock - original sin in life I fear.
Thus it is with my current bete noir - quite up there with Christmas Carols in November [see earlier rant on subject] - the infamous 'Choose and Book' hospital appointments non-system.
This very morning a letter arrives from the central dungeon of the C 'n' B monster remonstrating with me for not having yet made my appointment of choice, imputing a failure on my part to play the game and intimating that if I didn't get my arse in gear PDQ I would be ejected from the system as a wastrel in general and a waster of precious NHS resources in particular.
My pen, duly dipped in non-clerical acid, is poised to send a blistering response to the automaton that generated this laughingly erroneous letter, though the doubting inner man argues "What's the point?" and urges energy saving restraint.
A voice crying too long in the wilderness does grow rather hoarse and weary it is true, but if one ceases to protest one learns to adapt to unreality and accept it with utter passivity - precisely the modus vivendi our secular masters desire.
So if the newspapers carry photographs soon of a deranged man chained to the Downing Street railings carrying a banner that reads 'Choose and Book? My arse!', you'll be able to say to friends "No it's not Ricky Tomlinson, it's that nice vicar from the Wolds."
Yours ever,
The Impatient Patient.
post scriptum: The resourceful secretary at the surgery [see previous] has procured for me a whole new set of C 'n' B forms and referrals and passwords and reference numbers, and I now have the 'choice' of three hospitals not one within 20 miles of where I live and none of which I know aught about for their ability to do a decent ENT job. I shall choose the one nearest Downing Street - will save on the train fare!
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