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An armchair, wedged ten-feet in the air, between a building and a wall!
An installation for Tate Modern? ‘The Chair’ emblematic of a Board, stuck between a rock and a hard place?
Twenty or so of us, pondered its meaning.
Through the corridor windows, the next exhibit...
... a tasteful arrangement of huge, empty wooden, cable reels, with weeds growing around them, elegantly topped by a scattering of redundant scaffold poles… a metaphor for the NHS’ capital programme?
‘Reeling, empty and propped up’.
It was 6.45am. Some of us had already met… wandering the hospital corridors. No patients parked, but precious little signage.
By luck and instinct, we congregated.
Most of us up since 5am, nil-by-mouth from midnight… ready, nervous, anxious for our 7am day-case-date.
We’d navigated the rubbish and detritus strewn across the site. The threatening car park signs. The neglected flea-grass savannah. Potholes. Ankle-breakers.
Customers for A&E.
Just after seven the clinic’s electric doors unlocked and we pressed forward to do what the British do… queue.
Behind the desk, a sergeant-major. Smart with his name badge displayed even smarter… tucked out of sight in the fly front of his blue and white shirt...
Ignoring the computers the sergeant-major worked off a printed-out list. Pages spread across the desk, names in random order.
As each of us approached the desk we stood a little straighter as we responded to the barks; ‘name’, ‘say again’, ‘spell it’.
People with English, not their first language, managed by a sergeant major, who’s English appeared not his first language, results in a phonetic fiasco; ‘Are you saying ‘D’ or ‘B’. Tee, keeeee…. What?
Bewildered late comers swelled the queue. A sharp eyed, tall helpful, man, leaned across the counter and pointed to his name on the list. The sergeant major barked… ‘step back, this is not for you to see!’
We all cowed and shuffled.
My turn… in a firm voice; ‘Lilley… L-I-L-L-E-Y… the biro scanned the list up and down. Down and up. Sideways. You’re not on the list.
'Show me your papers….’ Errr…
… I don’t have any, sir.
My original booking was the end of June, the hospital clerk rang me 48hrs ago; ‘Could I come Friday?’ Yesssss! Here I was, not on the list and ‘no papers’.
‘Stand there. The nurses will sort you out.’ I froze, stood to attention.
The lovely nurse did. Careful, reassuring, professionally.
About seven the previous evening I’d been text’d a consent form. It named the consultant. The Nurse, now a female Sherlock Holmes, tracked it back from there.
The lovely nurse said; 'it often happened. Some people just go home….'
… one way to reduce waiting lists…
I’d been sent two consent forms. Duplicates; both describing my procedure… to insert a tube into my Vagina… I consented, twice.
You can’t be too careful with the Equalities Act, these days.
The nurse said ‘it’s the Concentric system and things like that often happen, if people bother to read it.'
Over two stressful hours later… I was on the list!
Whist nurse Sherlock was pounding the keyboard we were at a desk and computer, chairs and cabinets parked in front of two fire doors sporting a yellow and black sign, screaming ;
’415 Volts. This area is to be kept clear of obstructions at all times’.
No staff had been electrocuted so far. Nor patients, but it’s...
… another way of getting waiting list down.
My phone rang; ‘This is the hospital, you are supposed to be here. Where are you?’
Errr...here!
Where?
Actually, standing three feet way from the caller. We laughed and she zoomed off.
Sherlock asked; did I want to complain to the manager?
I looked at the notice board full of thank you's and said; 'No, not really… '
‘But if you don’t, things like this will keep happening. They don’t do anything’.
Reluctantly, I agreed why shouldn't I support these fabulous nurses?
Later, Sherlock couldn’t look me in the eye when she reported; the manager was ‘in a meeting and too busy to come to the clinic’.
That numpty reply was my trigger. I’m doing something I have never done before. In over 3,000 eLetters. Laying blame, naming names… at…
London's Whipps Cross Hospital?
No…
- not at the penniless estates department, perhaps someone will donate a broom;
- the sergeant major, lets hope he has a shredder and a GDPR certificate;
- not the health and safety people and their lucky rabbit's foot;
- neither the management ignoring the patient-risk-factors;
- nor the chief executive who is obviously powerless in the hierarchy of the Bart’s Health Group… yes...
... Whipps is the orphan child of the lofty St Bartholomew’s.
I blame… Professor Ian Jacobs, the chair of the Barts Group…
… Ian, you need to get out more. Not with an entourage but with yer alarm clock.
Wake up! Three things...
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Perception is everything, if it looks like a dump, it probably is.
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Little things are the big things… doing them twice costs twice as much.
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Starting with the patient and ... working backwards...
... fixes almost everything.
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