‘Next!’ shouted the bouffant-haired lady dressed in a terrifyingly crisp green and white skirt suit. She was sitting behind the glass-screened reception desk of the private hospital where my mother had just had her knee replaced.

This formidable dame I took to be a positive sign of the excellence of a healthcare establishment where one can simply buy and have competently fitted a titanium knee, without the need to beg the state to botch you one up for free, and throw in MRSA.