Closing the Book...

I will close the book on 'Choose and Book' lest anyone - H for one - begins to believe I am in danger of becoming slightly obsessive about what is but a small, if highly symbolic, weal on the body politic ("majoring on the minor" as management-speak gurus of many lands would call it), but not before concluding with devilish details of how The Appointment was - finally - made.

'Free at the point of delivery' - or 'access' in the modern jargon - is not that how we define our relationship with the NHS? We may pay for it through the nose in advance taxation, but when the moment comes for us to make personal acquaintance with the health service, our money is safe in our pockets - or purses according to taste. That is the deal.

So there I was with the 'choice' of one of three hospitals to contact and to offer them my symptoms and my business. Despite not knowing any from Adam, nor having the slightest knowledge of their respective capacities in the main matter, their waiting times, their stats on MRSA, the quality of their coffee etc., etc., I was unerringly able at once to make a fully informed choice of which one of them to plump for.

How so, I hear you eagerly ask? 'Twas simple. Two of the three required me to telephone an 0845 number whilst the chosen one gave me instead an 0800 number. Even the least technologically astute reader will spot that the former '45 is a premium rate, high-cost to the caller affair, whilst the latter '00 is free.

Being therefore blowed if I was going to pay for what would probably turn out to be a somewhat lengthy transaction (it was in the end over thirteen minutes) I stuck to the principle of 'free at the point of access' and called Bart's. (I ought at this point to own that actually Bart's and I are old chums: we have family in common, one was nearly married in its chapel and so forth. But that is entirely beside the point, for had they offered the '45 coin-grabber I would have passed them by on this occasion.)

Anyway at midday - note the time it is of significance - I set about making telephone contact with my old chum. As entirely expected, nay mandatory these days, the call opens with an automated menu-choosing message offering hope - but not certainty - of eventually making contact with the appropriate Human Bean.

Nothing deterred, one selected the appropriate sub-sub-sub menu option and relaxed as one began the inevitable wait.

"You are number six in the queue" a somewhat stern auto-female voice informed me after five minutes, thus on the one hand giving me useful information yet on the other hand intimating that 'six' was not the place I should be, the fault being entirely mine.

Still it was nice to think we were all lined up like pensioners in a Post Office. (Remember them? Post Offices that is not pensioners.) Or - perhaps more appositely - like children waiting for their injections at school. A faint echo of Good Old Fashioned medicine that - all in order and heaven forefend if Matron catches anyone slacking be they staff or patient.

Slowly we ascend the queue from 6 to an almost-there number 3, when another automated female voice comes on the line - this time more soothing and almost apologetic - "We are unable to take your call at present as we are experiencing a high volume of demand. You might prefer to call back when we are less busy. This is generally between 10.30 in the morning and 2.30 in the afternoon."

You will see now why the timing of this call is so significant. There I was slap bang in the middle of what was supposed to be their slack time being told to phone back at that very time. Hah! But they had reckoned with the Palladas persistence gene. Having got this far, somewhat like one's alter ego Bond [Old not New style - see previous on the matter of Bond styles], I wasn't going to be deterred from completing my mission by some machine, howsoever winsomely female it might be.

Many automated systems of this ilk will - once the point of "can't take your call at present" has been reached in the routine - simply disconnect you without so much as a 'by your leave' or a 'fare thee well'. Give Bart's its due credit, this system did permit one to continue to linger longer if one chose - choice after all being at the very heart of this whole affair. So one did choose to linger longer to be - oh wonder - finally rewarded with the heart-warming sound of the appointed Human Bean asking for one's reference number! Huzzah!

The rest was more or less a doddle.

Apart that is from being asked if one had been a patient before at Bart's and having to reply in true honesty one couldn't recall (one has been to so many hospitals over the years after all and Bart's may or may not have been one such visited). This resulted in a certain sucking of the Human Bean's teeth as if she could not comprehend such fecklessness, then a lengthy delve into the archives to retrieve what turned out to be one's electronic record. (So one had been to Bart's before it seemed. One duly hesitated to ask what for, though it would have been interesting to know.)

One's electronic record gave one's full name - as it should. Human Bean remarked this was rather a long name. (Never quite struck me that way - my father rightly believing that three middle names was an essential pre-requisite for a good life.) Would I mind if she chopped the name to its essentials, the Human Bean asked? Well how could I refuse, though with no particular pleasure.

Then we got stuck on the postcode of my GP's surgery. "What's the postcode of your GP's surgery?" barked the Human Bean. "No idea," I replied. "What's yours? Bet that's not information you carry in your head any more than I do in mine!" Well, actually tongue being bit I only gave her the first half of the answer, though the second trembled for a moment on the very edge of irritated discourtesy.

I did, however, add that I was somewhat disappointed that the all-singing, all-dancing system did not have such information readily to hand in its database if it were so important. But then, as the Human Bean rightly pointed out, she didn't design the system merely worked with it, so she was not best placed to answer that reasonable enquiry.

Apparently the system would not let us proceed until this vital matter had been cleared up and the data duly entered. Whilst, therefore, she - I heard her - took the route of calling out to her chums - "Anyone know the post code of Surgery X?" - I resorted to the ever-present Internet for the answer. My method proving swifter than hers, I was able within a click or three to give her the necessary gen on this critical matter.

This, more or less, was the final hurdle to surmount and within but a few more moments I was being offered the choice of one or none for an appointment first thing on a Friday in mid-January, on an entirely optional 'take it or leave it' basis.

Having come thus far one of course took, rather than declined, the very appointment one would have been offered in the first place had one used the old system - but let's not cavil at this triumphant moment. The Book of the Appointment is finally closed, hurrah.

"And they all lived happily ever after?" Well, we shall see on that later - last time one was at Bart's some corridors were awash with filth and clinical detritus I kid you not. I could even swear I saw a rat scuttling past sporting a medical white coat and a stethoscope around its scrawny neck - though H swears the stethoscope to be an exaggeration!