Just call me Typhoid Mary. Well, Hepatitis A, Diptheria, Tetanus, Polio, Yellow Fever, Typhoid Mary. As time ticks closer to the hour that we will be boarding our flight (in our boots, from Heathrow, could there be greater shame. Or more possibility for people to see it and spread the world globally), our minds turn temporarily away from doing lunges and rubbing on poultices and towards paperwork.
We won’t be allowed near the mountain without two things: a Tanzania visa and a Yellow Fever certificate and in the spirit of organisation (and putting off analysing a really huge pile of Excel tables) I frolicked down to the post office with my passport and £38, then frolicked up to the doctor.
It turns out that the NHS can see you same day, same hour even, if the purpose is to ram you full of disease. I suppose it’s a pleasant change from constantly trying to prevent it. Either way they were speedy and efficient in a manner that would stun The Daily Mail, leaving me with more toxins in my arm than (insert name of pop star here - lose 10 points for ‘Pete Doherty’).
What we have learned:
Top secret NHS tip - go to the Caribbean, there are no kids there...
Boot update:
Boots? Boots? There is no room for boots in the land of paperwork
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