Fucidin H? *Really*?
I’ve got a nasty rash. Have I mentioned? I really, really nasty poofy itchy bleedy thing. My arms, my legs, top of my feet, back and shoulders and…oohhhh, my sweet Aunt Fanny…on my butt.
I’ve been ignoring it for a couple of weeks now. That’s my default position on any illness: if I can probably survive the night without medical intervention, I’m willing to give it a shot.
But today Uncle B put his foot down (fair enough. Sleeping next to it might even be more disgusting than wearing it). Rather than try to get an appointment with my regular GP this close to Christmas, we opted for a walk-in clinic a couple of towns over.
The doctor there said it was likely either ringworm (which is actually a fungus) or ovoid eczema (which is bacterial, but I think he’s bullshitting me there, because “ovoid eczema” just means “round swollen bit”).
To find out which, all he’d have to do is shine an ultraviolet on it. If it’s fungal, the rash will fluoresce. If it’s bacterial, it won’t. But he couldn’t do that, because that’s technically a “test” and he’s not my GP. NHS rules say only my official GP can order a test.
So he had to give me treatment for both.
And there you have it: socialized medicine. The NHS isn’t terrible. It isn’t Soviet. If you didn’t tot up the eye-watering cost, it’s actually pretty good, at least around here. The doctors are competent, the staff is polite and professional, the facilities are clean and modern. I got to see a doctor within hours of deciding I needed one.
But always the ham fist of government making sure nobody uses common sense.
Oh, and hey — I get to rub myself down with liniment five freaking times a day.
Yay! Sandy Claus brought me ass cream for Christmas!