Happy gas!
My most recent trip to the hospital was back in 2004, when a man driving a van for Camden Council decided to make a sharp left hand turn, across my path; he wasn't going terribly fast, but sadly I was on my bike, got knocked down by his wing mirror and then had the back wheel of the van drive over my arm as I lay on the ground.

His attitude was less than great, to be honest. Bystanders had to bang on the side of the van to make him stop, and when he got up and came over to me it wasn't to see if I was ok, but to stand over me and shout "I hardly touched you, it wasn't my fault!"

Ambulance turned up in 5 minutes - admittedly it wasn't far from the Finchley Road to the Royal Free Hospital, but for a non life-threatening accident it was certainly fast. The paramedics were lovely - they chained my bike up for me, drew me a little map of where it was in case I couldn't remember, then whizzed me off to A+E. I remember going slightly into shock when they tried taking my fleece off and rolling up my sleeve to look at my arm - in the end they had to cut it off, but they did it along the seam so it would be easy to sew back together, bless them. Both of them were really friendly, asking me about my uni course, my plans for after graduation - when I said I was a music student and was preparing for exams to get into a postgrad at music college they looked at my buggered arm and then at each other, which was not reassuring. In fact, it was terrifying. So they gave me a liberal dose of laughing gas, which made everything lovely!

In the end, it turned out my arm wasn't broken (a bloody miracle, I managed to find the one bit of perfectly flat tarmac on the Finchley Road!) but the muscle had been crushed to an almost pulp - I was under strict orders to keep it immobile for a month, given a shitload of strong painkillers, then discharged. I was offered a lift home, but under the influence of the happy gas I giggled "Nooo! I've got lectures to go to! I need to know about Freud and Music! Hahhaaaa!! Which way to the bus stop pleeeeease? Hehehehehe!" and toddled off to enjoy two hours of The Second Viennese School of Composition.

So, the NHS. Paramedics were brilliant, I was seen quickly, had a load of drugs thrust on me, and after care was great. The NHS saved my life when I was a baby, saved my father's life when I was a teenager, and has patched me up numerous times. They're great.


Postscript: After a month, I was able to move my arm again, and decided to cycle down to Golders Green to do some shopping, to make sure I could get my nerve back. I was knocked tit over bonnet 500 yards from my (then) house, completely fucked my bike, and made the executive decision not to cycle in London for a while.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Mon 15 Mar 2010, 21:24, 3 replies)

Oh, please tell me
that you asked them whether you'd be able to play the violin/ saxophone/ zither when the wound healed, and capped it with "Great! I couldn't before!"

If you failed to do this, you'll have to give your degree back. That's the rule.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 10:44, closed)

pfft!
No, sadly I was too monged out to think of that at the time.
(The Empress it seems you CAN polish a turd!, Tue 16 Mar 2010, 17:48, closed)

When I read this bit
"I remember going slightly into shock when they tried taking my fleece off and rolling up my sleeve to look at my arm - in the end they had to cut it off, but they did it along the seam so it would be easy to sew back together, bless them."

I read that they had cut your arm off and you were being bloody calm about it!

TBH, I was also trying to figure out where exactly an arm seam was...
(Uncle Washy, Thu 18 Mar 2010, 4:54, closed)