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This post was nearly called “The Gasman Cometh”.

Twas on a Tuesday morning that I tried to make a call

Wanted to see a doctor, since my moods had took a fall

The receptionist wasn’t helpful, she just hurried me along

And I can’t get to the walk in, so I must call “One one one”.

Oh it all costs money so the Tories can complain…

Twas by the Tuesday dinner time, I reached NHS Direct

They’re not always good on mental, so I didn’t know what to expect

The dispatcher was pleasant, but he didn’t have a clue

So he passed to to a specialist, since she’d know what to do

Oh it all costs money so the Tories can complain…

Twas Tuesday after dinner when the specialist replied

“I have to ask the questions, love” she said “My hands are tied”

I answered pretty truthfully, I wasn’t at my worst

But she sent the paramedics, without even asking first!

Oh it all costs money so the Tories can complain…

Twas Tuesday afternoon the Paramedic reached my door

I apologised for all the fuss, but she’d seen it all before

She believed that I was safe, and that Direct had got it wrong

But a second ambulance arrived – we’d talked for too damn long.

Oh it all costs money so the Tories can complain…

Twas Tuesday afternoon again, a little before three

The paramedic volunteered to phone my bloody GP

It took her half an hour and she had to raise her voice

But they’ll call me back this evening, ’cause they didn’t have much choice

Oh it all costs money so the Tories can complain…

And now it’s Tuesday evening, and although I hate to moan

I’m right back where I started, bloody waiting by the phone.

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