Well the eejit that I got was something else. It seems to be a perculiarity of French medicine that you see the person doing the thing completely on your own. No nurse, no other female.
It was just me and Dr Mengele in a tiny, scruffy room at L'hôpital Européen in downtown Marseille. He must have been well over seventy and a bit doddery himself. I've known older doctors who were lovely but this one...
After I'd righted myself and was putting my tights back on, with trickles of that clear tissue fluid stuff coming out of my legs, he was dictating what he thought of me to his secretary via what seemed to be some kind of 1960's CB radio affair.
I'll try my best to describe it to prove that I'm not making things up:
It was like a beige coloured plastic walkie talkie thing attached to a coiled cable that went to the, "Big Phone" on the desk.
In France you can leave Google reviews of doctors because the distinction between public and private medicine is not quite the same. He's a one star. I'll love to name and shame him but that would be...