A brief encounter with Dr Coffee and the English medical system

It all started with a paltry little sinus infection that wouldn’t go away. After weeks of buying up big over the counter in boots to no apparent effect, I decided it was time to make a quick visit to the local GP to get something a little stronger.

Not having been to see a Doctor in England before, I did a quick Google search and found a Family Medical Centre, just down the high street, which sounded just lovely, not a haven for junkies or prostitutes or anything untoward like that. So I gave them a call.

A woman answered the phone in an accent that sounded like something from Russia. I briefly wondered if she had read my blog.

“Are you registered?” she asked me. Registered for what? To vote? To drive my car? To donate my left lung if I die in a car accident?

“I don’t think so,” I had replied cautiously. “I’m just visiting.”

This is greeted by deathly silence.

“You have to make private appointment,” she barked at me. Private as opposed to what? A public audience? “And pay. 40 pounds.”

She said 40 pounds as though it was 400 million pounds. As if I should say “40 pounds! My goodness me, don’t worry, I’ll just lie down and die instead. But thanks for your help”.

Anyway, when I tell her that’s fine, she tells me to call back tomorrow. After 9am. And then hangs up. Clearly no private appointments are on the cards for today.

So I call back at 9:01am this morning only this time I know to say up-front that I would like to make a private appointment. It is a different receptionist today. She reminds me about the 40 pound payment, and when I tell her that’s fine, I can almost feel her raising her eyebrows as if I am some rich hooty-tooty lady who can afford to throw her money around on such ridiculous things as healthcare.

I arrive at the medical centre at 12:25pm. I go up to the reception desk and introduce myself. Which apparently is not-the-procedure. She gruffly points me towards a computer screen mounted to the wall where I am supposed to announce my arrival. Seems the English are a step ahead of us Aussies and have figured out a way to cut contact with medical centre receptionists down to the bare minimum. I think this might be a good thing.

Of course the virtual-receptionist hasn’t quite yet worked out how to deal with ye of the private appointment, so I return to the real-life-version, and apologetically explain that I am here for a private appointment. So she checks me in, which takes as long as it takes me to tell her my name, and then tells me that my appointment is with Dr Coffee. Now there’s a good sign I think. I do love coffee.

And then I wait. For 30 minutes. In a dark waiting room with plastic chairs, brown carpet and people hacking up phlegm. So not dissimilar to most doctors waiting rooms anywhere else in the world. Anyone that wants to try and tell me that the practice of medicine is glamorous, clearly hasn’t spent enough time in any of these joints.

Finally Dr Coffee’s door opens and I am met by Ken Follett’s near identical brother. I swear, it was unnerving. I nearly asked for his autograph. Then he invited me inside his medical suite. Now I am no neat freak, but I have this strange notion that Doctor’s should be somewhat organised and tidy  -you know, so that you feel reassured that they’re not mixing up blood samples and telling you you have AIDS when you merely have the flu. Not Dr Coffee. He invited me to take a seat and I wondered briefly which chair to choose – I eventually settled on the one that didn’t have the spittle stained pillows piled on top of it. He sat opposite me – I think. I couldn’t really see him over all of the paper, numerous stethoscopes and other doctorly type things strewn across his desk. I half expected that if I lifted up a piece of paper I might find someone’s urine sample buried underneath.

Now Dr Coffee may not be the tidiest bloke, but he is certainly friendly. I soon discovered why I had waited for 30 minutes.

“So Tyrrell, hey? From Ireland then?”

“From Australia actually. About fifth generation. Although there is some Irish blood back there somewhere.”

At which point he then proceeded to tell me in detail about the Tyrrell’s of Ireland, who are apparently quite a noble lot (I always had an inkling I was from noble blood). I half expected him to whip a Collins Atlas out from under the pile on his desk and give me a quick history lesson.

But before he could get into any details about the battle of Cork in 1608, there was a knock on the door. Which to my surprise he answered with a friendly “Come in”. And in walked the patient from before me, who was looking for her umbrella. So they spent a minute or two having a hunt around for it, while I sat there thanking God I hadn’t come in for a pap smear. That would have been a little awkward.

After she left, we finally got down to business. He diagnosed me promptly, and prescribed me an antibiotic. At which point he located a blank sheet of A4 letterhead and wrote down the name of the antibiotic on it, signed it with a flourish, and handed it over to me. Could he not find his prescription pad? I must have looked at it with bewilderment because he said “Any chemist will fill that for you”. We then spoke about wine from the Barossa valley for another five minutes before he sent me on my way.

When I took the prescription to the counter at the chemist, I tried to look all confident and nonchalant, but I felt like I was handing over a forged note from my Mum. But she took it without batting any eyelid and proceeded to hand me over my drugs. Coming from a country where you have to show ID to get Sudafed, I was more than a little surprised at how laissez faire the English were when it came to drug dispensation. Especially when I got home, looked at my own little box of wonder drugs and saw that they’ve been prescribed to Miss Katherine Tagnell. Whoever she is.

Perhaps it’s a sign. That can be my pen name if I ever start writing Mills and Boon.