So I had a cough. And that rapidly developed into full-blown man-flu, which is, as all men know, if not exactly ‘deadly serious’, at least ‘fucking horrible’ and the cause of much whingeing and complaining and demands for sympathy. Since then nothing’s really changed. Still feel shit, bunged up, achy and coughing, especially at night. And I’ve been taking anti-biotics since Sunday. Because I had some; what can you lose?

So I called the doctors. Otherwise known as ‘pissing into the ocean’. Because all GPs have been in hiding since the first lockdown. And they’re not coming out any time soon. They’ve decided to collectively ‘isolate’. And the best way to isolate is to avoid making any contact with sick people. Even by phone. So they don’t answer. Then the problem never arises.

“You’re through to the Medical Centre. Don’t come in. If you need help because you’re unwell, stay away. If you’re really sick, keep the fuck away from here. Otherwise press 1 to arrange a phone call with a doctor. Press 2 to try and arrange something else we won’t do, press 3 to remain on hold for an eternity, or Press 4 to hear these rather limited options again. And don’t come in.”

I sent them an email. “I’m sick. You’re my doctors. I can’t get through. What can you do to help me?” And I’m still waiting for a reply. They obviously diagnosed, just from those few words, that my condition is definitely not life-threatening or in need of emergency care. Or any fucking care that they’re in any hurry to offer.

And what are you going to ascertain on the phone? Are these GPs so attuned to the sounds of different forms of coughing that with just one wheeze into their earpiece they’ll know a viral chest infection from mild flu from a fault on the line? All I know for sure is, I don’t have Covid and I’d like to see someone and I don’t want to go to hospital because hospitals don’t prioritise man-flu like they should. I just want someone to listen, prod, inspect, analyse, whatever, and tell me I don’t have pneumonia, cancer or a tropical parasite eating away my lungs from the inside until they grow to the size of gerbil and burst out through my chest. Because Mel would get really pissed of with all that mess. And I can’t afford to upset my primary carer.

So I went to see a doctor. A proper doctor. With a stethoscope. And a sphygmo- sfigmo- a blood pressure machine. And I’m fine. Fine and coughing but fine. Yet I worry about all those people who don’t have Doctors in their families who they can barge in on when they’re trying to eat and demand a full work-out. The above photo was taken after being ‘treated’ by the other family doctor, Doctor Joey, so please don’t be alarmed.

I feel better knowing that… I have a cough and some kind of virus. I can live with that. Hopefully. I’ll let you know.

Yours heroically

A xxxx