The next NHS letter I received came as quite a surprise.
It hadn't come from the bots. Instead, I'd been given a Dermatology outpatients appointment, where presumably I might even encounter an actual dermatologist. Things were looking up. Was that a clattering of hooves I could hear in the distance? Probably.
The appointment wasn't at the Royal Infirmary. Instead, it was at a health centre an easy walk away and close to the city centre. Furthermore, it was in the early afternoon and more than an hour before the magic hour of 3:00pm. Yes, that's right. The bots would definitely have disapproved. But it wasn't to be the only time I was given an appointment requiring me to break the 11:00am to 3:00pm curfew.
The health centre was typical of NHS premises found in inner city areas. Doubtless modern and spotless in its time, it was now looking tired and somewhat sorry for itself. And very busy. I think modern day parlance would probably describe it as 'rammed'.
I quickly formed the impression that the Department of Dermatology was squatting in part of the building two floors up. Everything seemed a bit temporary. Perhaps I thought this because handwritten directions on a series A4 sheets of paper sellotaped to doors and stairwells directed me to the clinic. But they got me there, which was all that mattered.
When I eventually reached my destination the receptionist was making a very good job of working his way through the queue. I was soon checked in and looking for a seat. That wasn't going to be so easy. It looked as though it was standing room only but I had a stroke of luck and spotted an opportunity when someone was called to their appointment. No one else made their move so I grabbed it.
It seemed that most of the conversations around me were taking place between people on opposite sides of the room. It was deafening. No matter how loudly my name was shouted, I knew I was going to have trouble hearing it above that racket. In fact, I had a false start when I thought the woman who appeared in a doorway clutching some notes shouted at me and off I went to say hello before quickly returning to my seat before someone else sat on it.
But I got it right the next time I thought I heard my name called.
There he was, standing in a different doorway much closer to me. The second dermatologist. He greeted me warmly and I followed him to his office. He had a jaunty walk, as though he could have started to dance at any moment, and wore black ankle boots that crumpled his scrubs. It occurred to me that he probably played an electric guitar in a heavy rock band in his time off.
His office was obviously temporary and didn't even have a computer. We sat down at a table cluttered with notes and he started to jot things down on a scrap of paper while we chatted. This hardly seemed organised and surprised me. The bots must have forgotten to give him my notes. Or so I thought, until I realised that at that point I probably didn't have a physical set of hospital notes because bots don't work that way.
After he'd examined the new lesion my scalp, he said: "I think you've got some questions for me."
Had I? It must have been something the second nurse hammered into her notes when she went into orbit in her office. But she'd also answered most of my questions herself, so this had created a tricky moment in my conversation with the second dermatologist. I can't remember how I responded, other than to ask him if I needed another script for Efudix.
He thought that wouldn't be necessary because he had a much better idea, and one that would undoubtedly make the bots proud. He reached for a canister that was lying on the table, stood up and stared at my scalp again. And then he said: "Let's give that a zap, shall we?"
He was referring to a surgical procedure called cryotherapy and intended to give the offending lesion a blast of liquid nitrogen. But informed consent and asking patients for their autographs were clearly not his bag. The next thing I knew, the lesion was receiving a formidable blast of something extremely cold while he counted down slowly from three to zero in a manner similar to the dentist who gave me one of the the most painful injections I'd ever had in my life.
His work complete, he stepped back and looked at me. "That wasn't too cold?" he asked, apparently surprised.
In this context, I suspected he was using the word 'cold' instead of 'painful'. I assured him it hadn't hurt at all and I was very grateful.
It was now time for him to counsel me about likely side effects. This is usually done before the procedure, not afterwards. I've always been amused when the NHS uses of the word 'counsel' in relation to a tick box exercise like this. It implied we'd sat down together and had a nice cosy chat exploring all my anxieties about the procedure and meaning of life and so on and so forth, which we obviously hadn't. Anyway, it rounded off the appointment and I was on my way home.
I returned for a follow-up appointment three months later.
As before, I quickly warmed to his casual style. He checked my scalp and gave the lesion a new name. It was now a papule. To be more accurate, in my discharge letter I was to see it described as a keratotic papule. This was my introduction to the dermatological vocabulary that refers to lesions by interchangeable names. Very confusing and in due course there were more to come.
I wasn't surprised when he produced his canister for a repeat zap before enquiring if there was anything else I wanted to ask him. The second nurse would have approved, and that's for sure.
I pointed to a small bump beneath my right eyelid, asked if he could possibly check it out and remarked: "I've always assumed it's an age-related change."
He peered closely at it and shook his head. "No, it isn't," he replied. "I think we'll put that one down to wisdom and experience."
