I'm a Phosphorus

One of the perks of joining a posh, high end gym is all the free stuff you get such as free intro to pilates, a free massage and a free health assessment.  As it happens, many gyms in London (maybe England?) have medical centers inside or next door.  I guess the idea is that is you are a gym person, you are probably interested in health stuff and might like to have a doctor nearby.  They also take National Health Insurance which was surprising, since I had imagined that to be more institutional looking.  But at this particular place, they have a "menu" of treatments including everything from a pap smear to reiki.  It is, after all, an Orthodox and Complimentary Medical Center.  Er, Centre.

Never one to pass up a freebie, I arrived for my free health assessment on my lunch break.  I walked into the glass-walled center in the middle of the gym to find all three  assistants staring out into the gym at a man who had just passed out during his cardio.  One was on the phone to the ambulance trying to explain that while they ARE a medical center (centre) they really are in need of transport to an actual hospital and that they are not next to the gym, but inside the gym.  Meantime, a man in a white coat rushes back into the centRE then rushes back out with an armful of equipment such as a stethoscope and that blood pressure cuff thing.  We watch helplessly as the guy perks up, then passes out again.  A gym employee pops in to ask how long the ambulance will take.  I remember my bus ride of 2 miles taking an hour sometimes in traffic and shudder.  The poor guy can't seem to stay conscious.  I was just about to suggest that maybe I come back when someone isn't dying all over the gym floor when the man in the white coat pops into the waiting room and ushers me back into an exam room.  He tells me he is Dr Asher.  And the unconscious man will be OK.  Eventually.

And so the assessment begins with a battery of questions about family members. He looks at my toes under a black light.  He asks if I was afraid of thunderstorms as a child.  He measures and weighs and takes a tiny amount of blood.  He asks if I propped  a door open with a brick, would I first wrap it in pretty paper?  (I had to admit I was torn on that one - depends on the length of propping.  Beauty vs Practicality, you see.)  And more questions.  Finally my revelation that I had pneumonia seals it.  I am a phosphorus.  And then we ran out of time.  He offers to finish up next week, since we were cut short by the passing-out-guy.  He tells me that it will all be wrapped up in a report with recommendations for diet and exercise.  But not wrapped up in pretty paper, as he isn't so much a Phosphorus.


I don't know if all British Medical Practitioners ask cryptic questions - is it part of the NHI?  But I must say, I can't wait to find out what in the Union Jack is a Phosphorus!