Like Stan Marsh, I learned something today. There are people with real problems in this city, and I’m not one of them.
Health is a difficult thing to define. You only appreciate what it is when you haven’t got it. On the way to Charing Cross hospital, I spent most of the journey worrying about catching MRSA and C-Difficile. I cannot tell you how much I loathe hypochondria.
Hypochondria is an affliction of the egocentric and narcissistic. It should be called dickhead disorder. I have all the symptoms. I do what I want, when I want, for the benefit of mostly myself. My concession to the outside world is a very modest standing order to Amnesty. No wonder I’m so cynical; I assume that everyone thinks the same way I do.
Fortunately, I’ve found a remedy. Go to a London hospital ward and hang out for a few hours visiting your sister, who has just woken up from surgery and is groggy, leaving you plenty of time to watch and listen.
Observe the shittily paid nurses who change the drips, take the temperatures and mop up the various excretions of sick, scared people with smiles, kindness and general compassion. I don’t think they have time to worry about catching stuff from their patients.
Glance at the old lady who has no-one with her at visiting hours and is stoically trying to get out of bed despite 50 fresh stitches.
Look at the pretty young girl who’s about 6 stone nothing who looks like she’s spent her teenage years in and out of hospitals but remains cheerful.
Then when you leave, check out the woman with two black eyes and a broken nose who’s waiting to get picked up by the cunt who sent her to A&E in the first place. Wonder if you’ve jumped to conclusions until you see her husband pull up and park in an ambulance bay before swearing at a paramedic who tells him to move.
I am not hot stuff. Nurses are. They get paid an average of £19,000 a year. Compare that to an MPs salary of £61,820 (plus their John Lewis allowances) -What a wonderful world.