Sunday, 17 April 2011


No doubt about it, Guernsey has the finest hospital known to mankind. You get smoothly chauffeur driven down in to dingly dell by a taxi driver with bedside manner, and there's this bright new building awaiting. There are no customers in A&E, just a smiling receptionist who just says she'll send you the bill. The atmosphere is light, bright, caring. You are seen by a smiling chirpy doctor and her smiling chirpy colleagues within seconds, they are even disappointed your allergic reaction doesn't demand immediate windpipe surgery, for it would brighten their day. Instead they are giggling and generally enthusiastic about looking at your balls. You pass the time of day as if chatting in the pub, they listen, then doll out the drugs and worry about the state of your sandals (it all started this time with itchy feet). From in to out laden with my goodie bag of pills and ointments, half an hour. All of this is about as far removed from a visit to the Royal as I can imagine.
Mind you, I was £266 lighter, which given my good mood, merely made me ponder just how expensive the NHS must be and to be more thankful for it.
Of course it's clear, Guernsey is also a place where nobody's ill.
It's also fairly clear I'm allergic to mint sauce.

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