The Great Escape

Herself spent some time, recently, interfacing with the NHS.
Two points worthy of note.
She did not mention, prior to admission, that the surgeon was a man of great charm, wit, sensitivity, openness and transparency, drop dead gorgeous boyish good looks; and one of those useful little bags that go over your shoulder and under your arm. (Not George Clooney but definitely Noah Wyle.)
Why should she!
So we go through the trials and tribulations. All is pronounced well, for the time being, and we are discharged.
Because of the shift change we are not discharged as quickly as we could be. Several hours later we are packing the bags, getting dressed, whistling the tune from the Great Escape, sotto voce, and ready to head for the door. A rude interruption ensues. Herself is accused of being an impostor who needs a bed for the night and a referral letter to Addenbrooke's.

Shite and onions!

I raise my voice to what I hope is a commanding but not intimidating level and affirm the name address, marital status, and inside leg measurements of herself and the fact that we are not now, nor have we ever been associated with Addenbrooke's. That is the prerogative of the woman in the other corner of the surgical bay and we wish her good luck. We, the few, the chosen few are heading for the door. It seems to work. Off we go down the escape route, sorry the corridor and I can't help breaking out into full whistle.

The Great Escape, a great movie, a great tune, just think of all the times you could whistle it to make a small point!