True to form, the Booking Centre staff managed to intentionally fcuk-up yet again...
By the time we'd left the house this morning, the thrice-promised letter of appointment hadn't been delivered. Undeterred, we turned up at Leicester Royal Infirmary well before the time arranged during the phone call with "Christine" c/o the Booking Centre and, as expected, I wasn't on the paper version of the clinic's patient list and my appointment wasn't "live" on their computer. What was on their computer was a marker saying that I'd cancelled the appointment. Hence no letter - in all probability it never existed, it was clear that the Booking Centre never had any intent to honour the arrangement.
I tell you, I don't know how I managed to hold on to any semblance of fair speech. It was yet another example of totally bureaucratic bullshit that is spouted regularly by some of the lying feckers in the Booking Centre, in particular the notorious "Christine", who no doubt attended the same School of Incompetence as Mr. Andrew Miller, the consultant who did my op and who, after I'd been admitted to the Emergency Ward a few days afterwards, misdiagnosed my condition as constipation and discharged me without treatment, saying that I should go home and eat prunes!
Of course, today's fiasco wasn't the fault of the clinic's desk-staff, so I couldn't let rip at her. She looked at the raft of bumped/cancelled appointment letters that I'd taken along "just in case", understood my angst, got on the blower, and somehow managed to "slot me in". She was a true professional - calm, caring, apologetic and pro-active - and I thanked her accordingly.
She told me that this meddling with the appointment system "happens a lot", that she took a lot of flak for it, and that she thought it wasn't a good way to treat people.
Hell, you don't say!
I won't bore you with the fine details of the consultation, suffice to say that the consultant seems to think that the treatment for anal skin-tags isn't ligation surgery, it's Imodium. Further to that, I'm now awaiting the results of a blood-test for, of all things, Coeliac Disease. It all sounds far-fetched to me, I believe that they're clutching at straws and that they're trying anything to avoid having to actually fix their mistakes.
And just to add insult to injury, I've been told that my anus looks like a vagina! Now that I CAN believe, and I suppose it could explain why the Colorectal Department finds it so satisfying to shaft me time and time again.
It's a good job I've still got my sense of humour, eh?
