Harry's Ankle Escapades, May 2008

Trust Sunday's to conjure up anything but the most enthralling heralds, what with their lackadaisical tonality and void streets. Yesterday however proved to be a most aberrant exception to the zeitgeist, providing unending sequels of drama and gimmickry thanks to the adventures of one Harry Greenfield, who after falling into an open drain on Sato, danced the night away having himself a right brill time before realising that his ankle had swollen to astronomical proportions come the morn. ..:What should have been a simple medical procedure turned into a series of asinine antics propelled by the condemnable inefficiency of Leonese healthcare. The taxi ride to the hospital panned out to be a hair-raising roister past red traffic lights complements of one amber-gambling lout of a driver, who consolidated his unimpressive mien by frequently hurling foul verbal abuse at other motorists who stood in his path.

The usual flabbergasted stares at the sight of anyone foreign in these parts warmly embraced our presence in the hospitals waiting room, a wait that seemed to drag on incessantly. The eventuality of things however, saw Harry patched up in plaster of Paris for the second time in 3 months, the ailment affecting his left ankle this time round. Bizarrely enough, there wasn't a pair of crutches in sight at the hospital indeed upon our inquiry germane to the above; we were simply directed to the services of some downtown pharmacy.

What should have been a simple procurement of crutches and prescribed drugs turned hence into Michael Moore worthy film material upon our arrival at the 24 hour Ordono pharmacy. Apparently, Harry was required to procure a set of vials and syringes to add the ignominy of the already odd malady, which weren't available at the Chemists. Ryan and I thereby had to traipse off to another nearby pharmacy and buy the stern looking syringe kits and their vials, which together with some made-in China-like crutches tallied to an acrid 75 euros. Our sojourn was still far from over, as the vials were apparently not readily loaded as they should have been, and we were concurrently directed to some private health clinic who'd in the Chemist's words 'know what to do'. So off we went again, turning up at the dank-looking sanatorium welcomed by some surly Spencer of a mong at the reception. It then transpired that the vials were faulty merchandise and we'd been conned by the Chemist who'd bumbled the prescription, selling old Hazza syringe kits that were a far cry short of what he actually required.

By this time, the clock hands were already well past the 11 pm mark and in no mood to continue the ethereal saga, we belled what would be our last of 4 taxi rides that day and minced off home well unimpressed with Spanish healthcare albeit all the more baffled and dazzled by the gist of things in these parts. And you thought you'd seen it all!. pero que va?!!