By Press Release
There’s nowhere on the Island nicer than Yarmouth, Freshwater and Totland, but if you live in the east Wight, I envy you. At the next election, you lucky people over on that side will be in a new constituency, which means you’ll be rid of the duffest MP in Island history and hopefully his clueless failing government.
Unfortunately, over on our side, it’s highly likely that Bob will win again, albeit with a vastly reduced majority. I haven’t given up all hope just yet, but I hear the familiar faces – the candidates who’ve stood before – will be competing in the west, not the east. They aren’t saying why; presumably they think Bob’s dismal record will be helpful to them. I do hear Bob is a little nervous, perhaps even he realises how much he’s promised and how little he’s delivered. Our rivers and seas are polluted, our school table results lag behind everywhere else in Britain, and now, just like our education management, the Island’s hospital has been subsumed by Portsmouth’s QA. We’d got used to no consultants, now we’ve had no consultation.
I called my local surgery last week. You can only ring for an appointment at precisely 8.30am. It’s completely ridiculous, but rules are rules and that’s the only time they allow calls. I’d tried their website first, but that was down, so I took a screenshot to attach to my inevitable complaint. Dialling the surgery number, I chose option five and sat on hold for 30 minutes before getting my chance to artfully persuade the receptionist that yes really, I did need to see a doctor, please. After a pretty intrusive interrogation, I was awarded second prize, a doctor call back! Hurrah, the first hurdle cleared, even if it wasn’t the desired face-to-face appointment. For the next two hours, I sat staring at my phone, anxiously awaiting the doc’s precious call. Why does the NHS always presume your time has no value?
Eventually, quite nervously, I found myself speaking to a lesser-spotted GP, who briefly interrogated my symptoms before concluding that bloods and a sample of urine was needed. Stupidly I forgot to ask how this would be done, so had to call back again. Another 30 boring minutes passed before the same call handler answered and offered to make another appointment for me to see ‘someone.’ It wouldn’t be a doctor of course – and I’d have to wait another week! I pleaded: “but I work on the mainland; I can’t afford another day off, just for samples.”
Detecting a tiny chink in her armour, I decided to fib and claim the doc had told me she wanted the blood and sample today, now, not sometime next week! This little white lie was successful. “I’ll see if she’s raised the forms,” said the call handler curtly, before placing me on hold. What new cruel torture was this? Surely if the doctor wants your bodily fluids, they don’t need to document it first.
Inevitably, the vital forms had not been ‘raised’ and after a minor protest, I was told to call to the surgery in person, where I might perhaps collect a pot to pee in. I followed this instruction and emerged blinking into the fading light triumphant a mere seven hours after my initial call, with that precious clear plastic pot in hand. It’s now Tuesday, St Valentine’s Day,
I did have to take another day off for blood sampling. Hopefully, now that’s been done, someone somewhere can determine what’s wrong with me, and who knows, I may even win first prize, and see an actual doctor.
I’ll let you know if it’s anything serious.