I recently went to visit an old friend in Basingstoke. Actually, he is not really old, (well, not by my standards), and saying he is a friend is stretching it a bit far, as he is usually quite rude to me.

But I had been surprised to receive his invitation, and as I hadn’t been able to see him for some time, I thought I should go. It used to be easy, I’d just phone up and agree a date and time, but over the last few months he, and his colleagues, have been quite elusive, and his secretary had been very efficient in blocking my previous attempts to arrange a meeting.

I was a bit delayed because there had been an unfortunate accident on the A303, just before Junction 6, so I arrived 30 minutes late, but it didn’t matter, because as usual his timekeeping was appalling, and, of course, he never offered an apology – I guess he realised that I was lucky to see him, and we both understood that actually, I had no choice.

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In an attempt to delay the inevitable abuse, I started the conversation by asking how his workload had been since we last met. He explained that although the demand for his services had increased, he had responded by reducing his working hours, and that he was concerned that his significant and increasing pension pot might result in a higher tax liability. I did point out that those increased tax payments might be used to fund the health service, and even start to deal with the crippling backlog, but my comments fell on deaf ears.

My sarcasm had provoked him into action and I had to endure the usual monologue suggesting that I should cut down on all the nice things that I enjoy, and do more of the things that I don’t enjoy. If I followed his guidelines, I could be miserable, and live longer.

My time was up and this was signalled by his curt dismissal, “Goodbye Mr Green”, (even call centres sign off with “Is there anything else I can do for you?”, this courtesy had not filtered down to my friend).

It was over, so back to the A303, “Goodbye Doctor”.