Oh what a weekend

Today I had my first dealings with the UK health system since 2003 when I took my ex-boyfriend to hospital thinking he was having a heart attack and unfortunately his rather feminine first name made the doctors try and sedate me... but I digress. As a certain singing nun with a penchant for clothing made from drapery would say, let's start at the very beginning.

Last night, Mia and I met the remains of Team London in Notting Hill to 'get out of the house'. This of course turned into a bit of an extravaganza and despite me accidentally kissing JonJon's flatmate again, poor Mia took the cake as far as dramatic evenings go. After a few Mojitos anyone would be a bit tipsy, but suddenly her legs fell out from under her and she threw up prolifically - Linda Blair herself would have been horrified. By this stage, my feet in uncharacteristic heels were killing me, but I miraculously managed to get Mia up the stairs in one piece where we hailed that cornerstone of British life, the mini-cab. My faith in Londoners was further eroded when the cab driver decided he did not want to risk having poor Mia in the car and abandoned us at a service station somewhere in the dark, tumble-weed ridden terrain of north London (ok the tumbleweed is just a special effect). 'Are you REALLY going to be this irresponsible?' I asked him, Greenpeace-interrogation style. "Yes I am,' he said coolly and drove off. Times like that you desperately need a Simpsons scriptwriter to put a biting response in your mouth.

We finally got home via a much nicer minicab driver who even helped me propel Mia inside (heels had gone flying down the stairs by this point). This morning, she awoke in a panic, and told me she thought her drink had been spiked. She had no memory at all of getting home. Erin and I rang the hospital - and this is the bit where I was considering a plane bound for Sydney (or Stockholm).

Apparently, the UK doesn't really believe in drink spiking. You see, whenever they test these women, they just have alcohol in their bloodstream. I think I have an explanation for that: namely, they don't test you until you have been in a hospital waiting room for the better part of a millenium and convinced the nurse that you are not in fact an alcoholic or a tramp (despite the fact you may have lost your painful high heels in the process), and you are then shunted off to a police station since the NHS refuses to test you. In Australia you can buy drink-testing kits, call advice lines and go to efficient 24-hour medical centres (...on second thoughts, maybe that says more about Australian men than British ones!) In the UK, you are basically accused of having had a few too many vodkas and given an injection. Admittedly, we finally convinced the well-meaning nurse at the hospital. 'I would put you in a bed for monitoring,' she said ruefully, 'But we don't actually have any'.

But after a large pizza, strawberry Haagen Daaz and a highly therapeutic dose of David Tennant, I think Mia's on the road to recovery. And one thing's for sure, we sure as hell got out of the house this weekend.

p.s. The Mac is back - yay! - life's a bit better (something to do with new shoes perhaps?), and, despite positively apocalyptic weather, London life is at least a lot more interesting - and not only in medical-emergency ways.