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Mission impossible

Fer Chrissakes, I nip off on hols for two weeks and find that, in my absence, my recurring nightmare that paracetamol will be revealed as the evil drug of Satan has become a reality. Which means that, to treat arthritis, we now have, er, let’s see, oh, I know, ferk all. Co-codamol’s addictive, diclofenac’s too dangerous, strong opioids are both and even the sympathetic pat on the head we’re left with probably causes subdural haematomas.

At the same time, the immunisation programme has suddenly exploded out of control. I’ve only just got my head round pertussis for pregnant women and rotavirus for babies, and now I find myself looking at explanatory blurb for the shingles vaccine (well, I would be if my LAT would send me some) and the childhood flu campaign, which, if you want a blog within a blog contains some seriously perplexing statements.

If, for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction, then we can only hope that, in the pipeline, there’s a vaccination against osteoarthritis. Or failing that, one that stops bodies like NICE and the MHRA making our difficult job impossible.

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