A few years ago, I jammed my finger in a basketball game in the east end of London. Writhing in pain, I brought the L-shaped digit to a nearby NHS (National Health Service) hospital, where the Doogy Houser MD promptly broke it trying to jam it back into place. I have a deformed hook of a pinky now on my right hand, one of two cocktail party deformities I like to show off. As for free healthcare, I learned that night, you get what you pay for.
More recently, I come across this post from my pal Adam in London reaffirming the above paragraph. He has been living large in a private hospital room recovering from successful back surgery. He has a TV, mini-bar, wifi access and wine list. But the best feature: morphine PJs.
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