Saturday, November 15, 2008
It was with great pleasure that I watched the doctor die. He’d been cocky too long, claiming government money for a long line of NHS patients who were desperate for help but whom he’d send away with an ‘”It’s a cold. Go home,’ or ‘You’re forty, fat and flat footed, what do you expect?”
Never offering prescriptions meant he pocketed the difference. It was, he felt, a marvelous profession, or would be if not for the patients. Colluding with his secretary, he reduced the actual office hours whilst expanding them on paper. Money rolled in. If he couldn’t send them away or deal with the problem then and there he referred them to the local hospital, dropping his voice to advice going through A&E, is if he were doing them a favour when in reality he was saving himself the paperwork.
Jedith paid him a visit, claiming a sore throat. He depressed her tongue and got her to say ‘Ah,’ then sent her away. “It’s just a bit of a cough,” he said. “Take two aspirin.” Jedith, the angel of Pestilence, nodded and smiled and gave him the Ebola virus.