C&B Sting In The Tail...

To Bart's today for due ENT appointment. Horrid place - no not the hospital at all, the corridors this time were near pristine if the signage was largely lacking - London I mean. The less and less frequently I go the less and less I like it when I do. Dark, devouring town all round.

Having circumnavigated almost the entire site in search of my allotted clinic - signs pointed then vanished at crucial junctions, first one name was used for the place in question and then another, directions given were but loosely tied to the actual route, etc., etc. - and survived the creaking, lurching lift, I duly and somewhat proudly presented myself to the cheerful countenance at the reception desk.

Said cheerful countenance began by apologising that my Choose and Book referral letter had not yet 'appeared on the system.' This in itself caused me no concern, as I could not see the relevance to the present circumstances. There I was present before him clutching my letter of appointment from Bart's, the prescribed consultant sitting breath bated in his office to receive me but five yards from where I was stood. All seemed in order from my perspective.

Not, however, from cheerful countenance's, who informed me that access to breath-bated physician was entirely and exclusively contingent on the 'system' throwing up the necessary letter from Choose and Book. Four days of endeavour had apparently failed to achieve this end so far, though he was cheerfully confident I would not be kept waiting terribly long. (Perhaps, one thought, four days in a reception area is not considered 'terribly long' in our modern NHS.)

Words and phrases such as 'farce' and 'from beginning to end' and 'wretched Choose and Book' rang out across the reception area. A near Gallic shrug was the best cheerful countenance could offer in recompense, followed up by some pertinent and also impertinent questions regarding my identity, position in life, marital status and home telephone number. (If he'd been keen on a date the questions would have been apposite, though the manner of asking lacked a certain seductive quality.)

Most distressing of all - as I felt it - was that howsoever much I harrumphed and protested, the cheerfulness of the countenance shifted nor fell one iota. If one is going to let rip on the idiocy of the modern world, one at least expects one's audience to react in some manner or way - whether in agreement or with disfavour - and not to carry on being implacably cheerful, as if one's words were but water to a duck's back. True professional grit no doubt on his part, but serving only to add fuel to the fire of ire on mine.

The lift broke down whilst I was waiting. Baskets of necessary files were left stranded and frail, elderly types were nearly cleared from the list by having to climb four flights of stairs. The door to the clinic declined to be left on the latch, resulting in every arriving, breathless patient having to bang on the door for admittance. As the door was out of sight of the desk it was left to us patients to admit them, though with due hesitation should their presence not be entirely legitimate. One 'care in the community' refugee did thereby gain admittance, though with swift and practiced strokes he was efficiently ejected once more.

An engineer was duly summonsed to attend to the lift and swiftly arrived - to fix the door. The lift started working on its own again, though the door remained obdurately locked.

"Rev. PP" eventually came the call - the system having eventually coughed up the so vital letter - so in one trooped to be greeted by a charming and terribly young doctor. A consultant at his age? How very precocious! Turns out not, as my notes had been placed at the wrong door. Ergo junior registrar and not the imposing and properly mature looking consultant one finally saw after a further wait.

"I see from the Choose and Book referral letter that you have come to see me about condition X?"

"Well, no actually it's about condition X but also about the significantly related condition Y," I replied.

"Ah, that does make a difference then."

Well, yes it did and so much for the oh so necessary yet ill-informed chitty from Choose and Book!

Not wishing to overburden with too much information on the actual medical aspect of the matter, one moves swiftly on to departure; having been tested, examined, explored and recommended for further tests of a somewhat lengthy nature. (All of which old-fashioned aspect of the medical exchange having been entirely conducted with poise, skill and charming diligence. Options had been thoroughly explained and next steps clearly identified.)

Not daring to risk being trapped in a malfunctioning lift to the stairs I headed. At the top of the stairs was a largely untouched vessel of antiseptic fluid attached to the wall, with a notice strongly urging patients and staff alike to freshen their hands before entering the unit. Sound anti-MRSA tactic of course.

Trouble is the vessel was in the one place that few entrants would use - indeed would only use when the lift was broken. Was there then a similar device by the lift for the overwhelming majority of people who would enter the unit that way?

I need not dignify that question with an answer. You will know what I would say. Of course there wasn't!