Bonfire Night: the first time since moving to the UK that I do not need to move & guard my boat on the holiday!
I would say I miss her, but she sends postcards.
Instead of festivities and fireworks I found myself consulting the internet for guidance on subjects such as best or favourite emergency room then whisking my charming companion away for a night of frolics in the A&E.
I selected whatever they call the Hampstead facility as potentially the most posh (and therefore responsive to sensitive mathematicians) and my hunch was right. Although I was surrounded by people who had been beaten, and the fellow next to me was shackled, and the walls were splattered with blood, it was really quite nice, for a hospital.
The best part? The person at the counter asks for your name and birthday. Nothing else. No insurance, no proof of residency, no credit card details. . .
In my early life I would have done anything, anything, to avoid the emergency room. Why? It cost too much. This policy nearly killed me more than once, and I still feel traumatised by the expense of my last stateside visit (examination, tests, emergency surgery, $35,000).
I heart the NHS, and I am willing to pay extraordinarily high taxes to prove my devotion.