National health my arse

Gaaa. The National Health. What a joke.

I spent years trying to get my GP to take my miserable back seriously and stop prescribing me ibruprofen.

It got to the point where I had to rope my MP in to get anywhere and even then the doc said there was an eight month wait for physio, WHICH WOULD "BE NO USE" TO ME, despite the fact I couldn't stand up straight.

He also bullied me into agreeing to surgery before anyone had even looked at my back by repeating, Paxman-like, "Will you consider having surgery" five or six times until I said I wouldn't rule it out if necessary.

When I finally did get to see a consultant he took one look at me, said I had a congenital birth defect (!) and that there was a wait of two years before I could have a MRI scan to find out what it was.

Bam! Five minutes later and I was thrown back onto the street.

But anyway, surgery was not an option and, having tried private physio, osteopathy, yoga, hot baths and everything else I could think of, I went to a chiropractor.

Hallelujah! The man is a miracle worker and I am now on the mend but my bank balance is about a grand lighter.

So, why am I moaning? I finally got to see a NHS physio this morning - about five years after I first asked the GP for a referral - and she said: 'Yes there is lots of things I could do for you but I won't treat you while you are being treated by another practitioner.'

Why do I pay my national fucking insurance? The Other Half has been on at me to write to John Reid about the shoddy treatment at the hands of these quacks. I think I will ask for a refund.

So, to leave this posting on a happier note - here's a cute picture of the puppy dog I will get one day. It's a Boston terrier.