Last Tuesday I ventured down to London village for my visa medical examination. I wasn’t looking forward to this part of the process, but as it had to be done I had to be a brave boy.

Taking the train from Durham, I got there nice and early (three hours to be exact) and after a bit of shopping in various establishments I got my Pret lunch and wandered toward the clinic.

It was situated in a posh Victorian gothic mansion with buzzer entry. Now I knew where it was I still had an hour to kill so sought out somewhere to sit to eat my lunch. All the garden squares were locked up (anti-social poshos) so I ended up on a bench on a corner near the office. I sat and watched motorists trying to run down pedestrians while I ate my lunch and stressed.

Eventually my time came for my appointment with private medicine. I walked up the steps to Bentinck Mansions and pressed the intercom. Ominously the door buzzed with nothing being said. Gingerly I entered and walked in to reception. I dropped my documents with the receptionist and was directed to the waiting room. I was instructed to complete the first part of their assessment of me (I thought I was paying them to do this) and then waited.

My appointment time came and went. This wasn’t any better than the NHS! Eventually I was called into a room by a grumpy South African nurse who asked me if I had a record of my inoculations. That’ll be the piece of paper I handed in at reception and is now sitting in the pile of documents in front of you.

We established I did in fact need tetanus and MMR jabs, but I was gracefully allowed to get this done at my GP (for nothing) rather than by them for £50+. That done, I was marched down to the x-ray woman who was also South African and even more grumpy.

I was shoved around in front of the x-ray thingy and chastised for not actually knowing how to stand or where to put my arms. Sorry about that, but as I’ve never had a chest x-ray, I have no freakin’ idea what to do. Whatsoever.

So far my experience of private healthcare wasn’t up to much, but then as I HAD to go to them for the visa, I expect that a bit of civility and decency wasn’t included in the cost.

After another wait I finally was called by the doctor and taken into the room of doom. We ran through some questions (drug addict? alcoholic? Loon?) and established that hypothyroidism was in fact a thyroid disease (not just a bit sick like I thought) so I should have ticked the box. Well, that’ll teach you for making me fill out YOUR forms. They were supposed to be the experts after all.

After the paperwork, the once-over began. Luckily she didn’t linger long on my man-bits, to my relief. Despite all this, my heart rate was rather high. This was commented on, and I tried to explain that it’s not everyday I get poked with a big needle and thrown around an examination table…obviously. I was tersely commanded to “Relax!” which didn’t seem to help much. Hmmm, must work on your bed-side manner.

Anyway, long story short while I held my bleeding arm elevated and she completed the last of the paperwork, she tried to get all chummy and chatty so I played along. I just wanted out of there.

Soon we were done and I was relieved of £180 and free to go. I made a dash for it and got to King’s Cross in time for the 2.30pm train. I was home by 5.30pm.

Phew.