Nelson Galaxy

The burnt wound on my left arm and hand has turned into a black puss filled, painful mess. I will not visit a doctor or hospital, oh no. My experiences with the healthcare industry have always been a little unsatisfactory. My mother will berate me for not going but I choose to suffer rather than entering the antiseptic environs of the medical world.

There is no way I will visit the Royal London Hospital A&E. Apart from the happy opportunity of spending eight to ten hours waiting, I am far more likely to catch something really serious. There is also a high chance of being robbed by a scumbag, which did happen a couple of years ago.

My doctor, one Dr De’Ath, is a young rather handsome Welsh man. He is based in Bethnal Green, in a nice clean practice where everyone is friendly and helpful. It is a mission practice so they say prayers everyday and thank God for his efforts to battle disease, but I won’t hold that against them. The problem is that he does not seem to be particularly competent. Though friendly, with a lilting Welsh accent that puts me in mind of valleys and sheep, his decisions are questionable.

He removed the stitches out of my nose following a rather severe face/pint glass interaction. Painfully extracting the thread he exclaimed, “Oh my, perhaps I shouldn’t have done that. They could have done with being left in for a lot longer.” I could feel the blood dripping down my face from the open seeping wound. As he clumsily applied a plaster he said, “You’ll be alright, Mr Galaxy, Just a small scratch.” I wasn’t, it wasn’t.

Previously, when I visited due to suffering from anxiety and depression, he gave me this advice: “Cheer up old chap, it’s not all doom and gloom you know.” Sound counsel but at that point it was all doom and gloom. I think I needed something a little stronger.

The last time I saw Dr De’Ath he put his finger up my bottom. I found this a little odd because my appointment concerned a painfully swollen elbow. Ho hum.