I went to the
Neurology department in
Colchester General today for a spot of Magnetic Resonance Imaging. The all-seeing all-knowing consultant who
diagnosed me with epilepsy referred me to this department as well to confirm his diagnosis/cover his back in
case of a lawsuit. Apparently Neurology and Neurophysiology are quite separate
departments, hence the appointments on different days. After a little bit of fraughtness with
Network Rail and one of their hilarious delays, I made it to the MRI unit 5
minutes early (after having rapidly stripped down outside into shorts and a
t-shirt as to not have any metallic clothing on that might bugger up a
God-knows-how-much-piece-of-equipment).
The NHS is perhaps
the finest institution the British have to offer, and is by that token
inherently British. This was confirmed when I was left in the waiting room for
40 minutes, exhibiting my knobbliest of knees and my palest of pins to all and
sundry. I had come prepared for this eventuality by bringing a hefty book
(Palin’s “Full Circle”, since you asked) and a bag of sweeties. Alas, I
couldn’t find a kid to eat them in front of, saying things like “Mmm, these
sweeties are delicious, my mummy got me loads, because she really loves meeee…”
Eventually I was led to this portakabin full
of magical gizmos, where the nurse who was dealing me openly mocked my milk
bottled leggies, saying that there was no need for me to have stripped because
it wasn’t my legs going into the machine. The letter I had received was very
clear on the point that I should have no metal about my person at all, else a
couple of NHS nurses called Derek and Denzel would come and put my head so far
up my arse that my face would be poking out of my mouth (I know, I didn’t
understand it either). To take attention
away from the fact that I looked like some sort of anaemic albino 80’s
throwback, I asked her if there was some music I could listen to in there as
staring at the inside of a white chamber wasn’t exactly my idea of a night out.
I thought of the first relaxed artist I could think of, and I’m not sure why I
said him, maybe it’s because I saw Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery
the other day. Perhaps it was my brain misfiring, but I did hear from a distance
someone else’s words coming out of my mouth- “Have you got any Burt Bacharach I
can listen to in there?” I don’t even like the guy. Anyway, she told me that
they do let some of the patients have the radio on. She also let me know in no
uncertain terms that she wasn’t going to let me have the radio on and I wasn’t
allowed music because I liked Burt Bacharach and was therefore a massive twat.
You know that scene
in Star Trek 2: The Wrath of Khan where it’s Spock’s funeral and I can’t h-
where some of the people watching can’t help but cry? What d’you mean, no? Well,
he’s in a space coffin and the space coffin is slowly slid into this photon
torpedo tube to be shot into space. That’s what it feels like to go into an MRI
cylinder. Except Spock’s not dead and he has earplugs and his head rigidly
fixed into place. The nurse was wrong
about not having any music though. For
the 20 minutes I was inside that chamber, there was throbbing and pulsing and
noises all over the shop. It was just like one of the latest dubstep tracks
someone played me, only it was different this time because when it was “playing” I had put earplugs
in. Hmm. No, come to think of it, it was exactly the same.
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