Helsinki airport, snow on the ground and in the distance.  Cold but cosy enough inside.

Searching iPlayer for something to watch on the tele on Saturday evening I came across "This is going to hurt".  I had a vague recollection that the book had been well received so I clicked on it.  I didn't realise it was a seven part series but it was super and kept me up till after British Summer Time had rolled in.  Very funny with a satisfying leaven of tragedy and schmaltz.

My own recent medical exposures have had their amusing side.  I'm writing this en route to Japan which is very hot on drug control, even innocent prescription drugs like the stuff I take.  To enter Japan with prescription drugs you need an import licence if you want to take more than one month's supply and even then there are various restrictions.  No Vick's inhaler for example.  You just have to put up with a blocked nose.

Both the Japanese tourist guide and the British Foreign Office say you should carry with you a copy of your prescription and a letter from your doctor saying why you have been prescribed these medicines and the drugs themselves must be in their original wrapping.

So I popped into my surgery on Monday 6th March and explained my requirements to the receptionist.  She ran off a copy of  my prescription and told me I'd have to put the request for a letter in writing.  She gave me a sheet of paper and I wrote the letter.  This would be dealt with at the practice meeting on the coming Thursday I was told.  That was visit 1.

A week later, Monday 13th.  I went in to be told that unfortunately due to some staff sickness the matter had not been dealt with but would undoubtedly feature at the next meeting.  That was visit 2.

Monday 20th I'm back again.  No letter.  No explanation.  This Thursday for sure.  I gently explained that there was only that Thursday left before my departure for Japan so there was a degree of urgency. That was visit 3.

When I got home I got a text asking me to ring the surgery about a letter.  I dialed the number. The answering system told me first that if I were dying I should ring off and try 999.  I was also asked to think about whether a pharmasist or other such professional might not be more appropriate for my circumstances. Then there was the message about recording for training purposes and the reminder that staff should be treated with respect.  Was there a veiled threat that if they weren't then the sh*t would be beaten out of me or is that my overactive imagination.

Next we got down to my options.  If my call is about X then press 1 etc until "If you are ringing about a non NHS letter press 6".  That's me so I hit the key.  The system advised me that I should put my request in writing and give two weeks notice. Then it rang off.

I started again, skipped over option 6, hit the 7 and at last got a human being.  I don't know who she was but I repeated my tale.  "You'll have to pay."  "I realise that."  It seems they want the  dosh up front.  I'm offered the choice of paying into their bank online or in cash at the surgery.  I say that I live only five minutes away and will pop round there and then with the cash.  It's £45. I proffer £50.  They have no change.  I say "keep the change, if I can't get into Japan much more than that will have gone down the swanee.  Thus ended visit 4.

Monday 27th.  Two days to lift-off.  "It's with the doctor."  But not with me I point out and time is short. A reminder is despatched electronically to the doc.  I go home.  Visit 5 is over.

Tuesday 28th.  It's still with the doctor.  "Have I paid?"  "Yes"  "I can't see it on the system." Now unusually precient, in running over in my head what could go wrong I had envisaged this sort of scenario so not only had I kept the receipt I had it with me.  "I'll wait" I said.  A low key conversation between receptionist and doctor shortly afterwards when he was free from a consultation.  I caught my name and sensed that she was telling him that I was clearly pissed off but manfully controlling my impulse to wreak havok.  "No point in waiting, he'll definitely have it by the end of the day."  That's 6 o'clock and we agree I'll come back at 5.30.  Thus ends visit  6.

Half past five on the dot I am there.  We exchange smiles and chit chat.  Time passes. More smiles.  At five to six Sam, for that is the doctor's name, enters reception.  I remember him from the years before Covid when surgery visits could be made at what seems now like a moment's notice.  He's wearing those lovely blue scrubs from "This is going to hurt."  He hands her a letter.  She passes it to me.  Visit 7 is topped out with success.

The other little medical story is about Covid.  Japan is still not quite done with restrictions.  The fully vaccinated can enter freely.  I've had five jabs so that is surely me.  But!  To prove this fully vaccinated status you are asked to present a certificate showing three vaccinations using one of a range of acceptable vaccines.  Now NHS Scotland provides a certificate saying you've had X but showing details of only the last two.  The app on my phone has details of all five but it's not a certificate is it?

I decide to take the unvaccinated route, a negative PCR test taken no more than 72 hours before departure. Booked and paid for (what's £65 these days) online on Sunday, up to Frederick Street on Monday, throat and nose swabbed, test result received a few hours later and uploaded during online check-in on Tuesday.

I should board the Tokyo flight in about an hour, all ready to sail through Japanese immigration - deo volente.