Mr Desponsey-Smythe?

Today, I took the mother to the hospital. It wasn't just any old hospital, oh no, it was a 'private hospital'. After a short journey to Methley (no, it's not full of Meth addicts. Well, not many), and a brief drive up a country lane, we arrived at the tiny hospital. It, naturally, was full of posh cars with private number plates. We proceded into the building, where it was just like a doctor's surgery. The only difference, and this is key, is that it was full of the upper middle-class. People with double-barrel surnames with accents that clearly weren't local. And an American enquiring how long we'd had private hospitals. Me and mother got glares, as we had accents. Surprisingly, she got seen on time, and we were in and out within half an hour. When I had my pot on my leg, I waited 2 hours before I got seen to have it taken off, then had to wait some time afterwards to see the doctor to check my knee, then had to hobble up to physio (and it's quite a trek at Pinders) to book an appointment. At this point I was told they'd ring me to make an appointment. I was most unimpressed.

Well, that has been my day so far. Perhaps I shall go out this evening. I am unsure yet. We shall see. If I do, it will be to Pontefract, and I may not return alive.