Something about Nothing

I feel like this should be called "Redemption II" to redeem myself from a bad Friday post. Never mind. It is what it is and I stand behind myself, even if no one else does, during exciting times and boring ones.


Now that some time has passed, I feel I can be fair in my assessment of my recent experience registering with my local surgery (North Americans, this = local Dr's office. I have no idea why they call it a surgery when you can't actually have surgery there). Also for the benefit of anyone not in the know on the NHS (count your lucky stars) this is a necessary process before you can visit your local GP for routine things such as hay fever, cold, flu, girly stuff as opposed to urgent matters or emergencies where you just visit an A&E (otherwise known as ER in 'Merica). I did this when I first moved here nearly 4 years ago, so I am not new to the experience, but I apparently forgot how traumatic it is. Hence, in retrospect, why I remained registered with my Chelsea GP after I moved. Technically you are supposed to live within a certain post code to attend certain surgeries (especially in posh areas). I have heard that it's against the law for surgeries to turn away patients on the basis of post code, but since you MUST show proof of post code, I assume they would make something else up. We're all full, but thanks for coming down. Bu bye. Anyway, I digress. Registering basically just means you turn up in person and submit your details along with proof of address (council tax or utility bill), proof of residence in my case (Visa and National Insurance number) and Identification (Passport). You can't usually make an appointment to do this and the hours which they allow new patient registration are typically limited. For the people, by the people, of the people. Great.


So, I worked from home on a Thursday to take care of this. I turned up (during the allotted 2 minute window every month) with all the necessary information and identification, or so I thought. The woman was nice enough and took inventory of all my bits and then she called her supervisor over. The conversation went something like this:


Nice Woman to Supervisor: She has all the required forms, but I don't see an NHS number listed here, what should I do?


Bitter Supervisor: You can't register without an NHS number.


Me: Oh, is that different then my National Insurance number? If it is, I have never received it.


BS: Yes you did


Me: Erm, no actually I didn't. As you can see, I have all my ducks in a row, I am an organised person and wouldn't throw something important away. Who would it have come from?


BS: Your former GP. We can't and won't register you without it. I suggest you write to the health department and get it and come back when you have it. Then we can register you.


Me: Ok, well I took the day off of work (yes, this was a white lie, but whatever) and I travel often for work, so this isn't exactly convenient for me. Since I don't have it, but you say it exists, can you call my prior surgery and get it from them?


BS: No


Me: Ok, can you help me here? I need to register today, bottom line. How can I accomplish that?


BS: Get the number you need that you lost


Me: Aside from a long process of handwriting a letter, which I didn't even know people did anymore, what can I do? Can you problem solve with me here instead of working against me?

Now as I am sure you can extrapolate, I was getting frustrated. I was quite sure that any minute someone was going to scream, CRAZY AMERICAN at the front desk.

BS: Call your former GP and get the number, that's the best suggestion I can offer.


Me: Oh, ok, well why didn't you say that. Done.

I start to dial my GP, and BS stops me...No mobile phones in here miss. You can imagine the look on my face. Fine, I smiled, can I borrow a pen? Outside, I relayed the story to my Chelsea surgery who gave me the number but explained that it's totally unnecessary and no one ever actually has this number. She sounded sympathetic and it made me feel a bit better. Back inside, I waited another 20 minutes while some old folks tried to accomplish simple tasks of picking up prescriptions. Good luck I muttered under my breath and slowly regained my composure. Nice woman is leaving for the day now and it appears I am forced to deal only with BS. She looks at me and says, have you been helped? I wanted to shout, DUH you dumb fuck! You just read me the riot act, do you not remember? Instead I very snottily said, not really, do you not remember me. Blank look from BS. Ok, I need to register, here are all my things including the unnecessary NHS number you asked for. Spark of recognition propels her to remember to treat me like the low life foreigner I am.


BS: (Eyeing my residence visa) So this visa is new, you're new to London then?


Me: No, I have been here for nearly 4 years. I switched jobs last year and obtained a new visa.


BS: mmmmm, I see. When does it expire?


Me:Erm, I think 2012, but as you're holding it I can't be sure. You may want to check.


BS:mmm, I see. And where are you from?


I slowly looked around thinking she must be talking to someone else. Nope, she was talking to me. I literally looked at her, with my passport in her hand, with eyes that could sear through an iron wall. I didn't say anything. This line of questioning went on for about another five minutes and by the time it was done, I was 2 seconds away from pulling out a payslip and throwing it at her so she could see how much National Insurance tax I pay every month. GRR. Now I needed to make an appointment to have a Rx re-filled. At this point I had run out of energy, time and the will to live. BS turned the appointment scheduling over to a mental giant who couldn't figure out what day of the week dates in April fell on. Ie: shall we make that appt for Thursday the 23rd of April? Me: I think the 23rd is a Wed, I need to schedule it on the 25th actually. Oh right then, Monday the 25th of April. I will let you draw your own conclusions, but let's just say this back and forth took up another 10 minutes.

Now you can possibly see why I needed a hot chocolate from Starbucks and why the Tramp was even more entertaining. I now understand why imigration is such and issue here. It's people like me who weigh down the system.