Thursday, 29 March 2012

A Short Story

Earlier this week I nipped out to the shops for a couple of things that I needed, and ten minutes and a small dent in my bank account later strolled contentedly out with a small quantity of typhoid fever and a little shot of hepatitis A.

A little further down the street, I was buzzed into an ordinary block of flats and made my way up the somewhat dark and dingy tenement stairs. I knew not to knock on the door and made my way into a room with a few chairs and a heap of old papers and magazines. After a few minutes, I went into another room and a woman I've only met a couple of times injected both my arms. I realised I didn't have any cash on me and dashed out to the nearest hole-in-the-wall for a few banknotes to pay her with. She didn't let me in the second time as she was busy with another customer so I handed over the money on the threshold and carried on on my merry way.

Just another ordinary experience with the French health service, really.

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