Last night I was sitting at home, becoming more and more annoyed. It wasn’t because Great British Menu is finishing this week, although that also upsets me. Yesterday Oliver Peyton said to another judge: “I am genuinely shocked at your lack of empathy for this pudding!” Gold.
I became irritated thinking about our consultation with The German yesterday. This is the second time we’ve had an appointment with a specialist to discuss test results, that haven’t been available when we turn up. The Business referred B for this, so I can just imagine how it transpired.
The Business: I’ve sent him on to you, told him to make an appointment for Thursday to discuss the results. They won’t be in, of course, but he doesn’t know that. Just give him some general faff about brain tumours, £250, bob’s your uncle. I did the same thing last week.
The German: Perfekt.
Granted, B isn’t paying for these appointments, but there’s an annual limit to his private insurance claims. A limit I’m sure he’s rapidly approaching with all of these expenses.
And what about the referral process itself, from neurosurgeon to neurologist to oncologist. How does that work? Is it discussed on the golf course?
The Business: Got a new one for you, Frank. Oligo, grade 3. Won’t pop off straight away – lotta consults, lotta treatment. Pushy missus, but a nice littler earner.
The German: Sehr gut.
I know I’m painting a picture of B’s team of highly professional, experienced doctors as the medical equivalent of the Trotters. Maybe I’m way off the mark. God bless hooky, I mean Harley, street.