TOM JACKSONI had to go to hospital – the Homerton,
in Hackney, east London – a week ago.
My doctor had referred me to get a mole under
my right eye checked out by a dermatologist.
This mole has been there for ages, as long
as I can remember. And for as long as I can
remember, my wife has been urging me to get
it looked at. Which, only about 25 years since
Nicola first mentioned it, I eventually did.
“You should get this examined,” said
Dr Cahill, the most excellent GP who has
helped keep my particular show on the road
this past quarter-century. “I’ll put you on the
cancer pathway. There’s no need to worry; it
just means you’ll get seen quicker.”
And you know what? If Dr Cahill tells me
there’s no need to worry, then I don’t worry.
Even so, it’s not a word you want to hear,
is it? Not “pathway”, the other one.
Especially when, seeing Dr Cahill on the
Tuesday, the hospital offers you a slot on the
Thursday. That’s a bit swift, isn’t it? Furthermore,
when I got home and realised I couldn’t make
Thursday because I had to go on Times Radio,
and then rang the Homerton to reschedule, they
came straight back with another appointment
for the Monday. Commendably efficient, but
also somewhat alarming.
Over the intervening weekend, I was
starting to think maybe Times Radio could
have done without my contribution the
previous Thursday. Peerlessly insightful
as my comments on the issues of the day
obviously always are.
Predictably, a big news story then broke
about how skin cancer is a far bigger killer
than previously thought.
Cheers for that.
Anyway, come the Monday afternoon,
off I went. It’s a short, familiar walk from my
house to the Homerton. I first visited over
30 years ago in the spring of 1990, in order to
get a head wound stitched up. In an early foray
as a fearless young reporter, I’d been in Brixton
covering what turned out to be a riot at
Lambeth Town Hall, the council within having
been debating the poll tax. Standing naively
near to a policeman, I’d copped a half-brick
meant for him. Flush on the bonce. Didn’t hurt
much, funnily enough. Bled like crazy though.
Like a wounded animal limping back to
its lair, I’d elected to get treated at my local
hospital, rather than take my chances in the
wilds of south London.
I seem to remember successfully claiming
the minicab on expenses.I’ve bothered the Homerton many times
in the three decades since. Sometimes at A&E
with scares over the children. Like the time
about two in the morning after we all went to
a Bruce Springsteen gig at the Olympic Park
and Sam thought he was having a heart attack.
Turned out he’d torn his pectoral muscle
throwing overenergetic shapes in appreciation
of Born to Run.
And sometimes I’ve visited Outpatients
seeking reassurance over my own ailments- some real, some imagined, some self-inflicted.
Now, when even more than usual the medics
there have better things to do, I was back
again. At least this time I had a decent excuse.
Negotiating entry was interesting. One
chap was on duty to dole out masks to those
(not me) arriving without them. A second
man checked my appointment letter, gave
me directions, and told me to sanitise over
there. A third sentry kindly came to my aid
when I dropped that same letter while fussing
with my hat, coat and gloves. I guess I must
have been more flustered than I thought.
Well, OK, I definitely was. Having waited
my turn to book in at dermatology, when
approaching the desk, the back of a row of
computer screens partially obscuring my view
of the receptionists facing those screens, I got
it into my head that the receptionists were all
called Lenovo.
“Hello, Lenovo,” I said brightly to the young
woman who beckoned me forward.
It was partly that Lenovo is a relatively new
player in the computer hardware market. And
thus, I am not entirely familiar with the brand.
If the screen logos in front of me had said
Hewlett-Packard, I don’t think I’d have decided
that the person I was about to greet was called
Hewlett-Packard. And it was partly a matter of
the particular angles and perspective placing
the Lenovo logo at the precise level where
a name tag might be. But mostly, I wasn’t
thinking straight. After all, it wasn’t just my
designated receptionist I was convinced was
called Lenovo. I thought they all were.
Luckily, what with the social distancing and
the mask, I think I got away with it.
Got away with it entirely, indeed, the
specialist taking one look at my mole and
pronouncing it harmless. No problem at all.
She’s going to zap it next month. Thirty
minutes. Local anaesthetic. Job done.
Phew. God bless the NHS. n
[email protected]‘My wife’s been urging
me to get a mole
looked at for ages, so
about 25 years since
she first mentioned it,
I eventually did’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
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