The main actor in the show, Tom Hollander, had fallen over a piece of furniture on stage the night before and broken his elbow so an understudy  played his (two) parts. It’s a stooopid story that the cast played out like they wanted to get home early, with jazz hands, bumping bosoms and a lot of incomprehensible  speed shouting. The ice cream in the interval (even though it cost £3 for a tiny one swallow pot) was the best thing about the entire evening.

The funniest part of the night wasn’t my husband doing a starfish impression on the ice, it was when the mood changed in a moment from Christmas to Halloween because one of my sister’s front caps  dropped out. Daughter number three did a twirly point with her finger and said “Oh look! Your tooth’s gone crooked!” and then out it came, along with a blood curdling scream, to reveal an evil looking stump left behind. 

And let me tell you that no amount of Jaeger or Marks and Spencer can rescue you from looking like an old witch when you are missing a front tooth. Tooth in palm my sister called the NHS emergency dental healthline four times that night on December 30th - and ten days later they still haven’t got back to her.

 Helena with her electric shock style hair, pale skin and panda eyes is the perfect NHS muse for an outfit to wear whilst having a near death experience. I’m sure Ben will remember to accessorise: mock-croc morgue tags and bling studded containers for dentures could be included in his high style hospital range. And what about irridescent bedpans in a range of seasonal colours. Or maybe some linen syringe covers in neutral shades?

And why are the existing hospital gowns called ‘bum flashers’? Any time I have ever worn them I tie the opening at the front. Does that makes me a belly button flasher?

Anyway – to my (needle) point. When I finally entered the blood test room it was open plan. And all eight bloodsucking chairs were arranged in a square,  facing inward. From my spot I could see six other patients giving blood and because of the position of my chair around fifteen more people who were facing my way in the waiting room. It was an audience, a pale and sickly one, but still an audience.

I didn’t complain, mostly because I might have been relegated to Number 199 - but is it too much to expect some privacy whilst you are  stuck with a needle in a state of the art London hospital?

If  having a blood test is now a communal activity why bother with a dedicated room at all ? Send the phlebotomists out wearing blue plastic gloves and aprons (and  matching peaked hats maybe) with a rucksack full of syringes to roam the outpatients clinics, the hospital cafeteria and even the nearest bus stop. They could be sponsored by the Evening Standard and give patients a free London paper for being brave.

What’s next ? Dental treatment , delivering babies, rectal examinations en masse ?