The Government and the NHS

Being a slave of the great institution that is the NHS, I am forever left with a never ending feeing of awe at how an organisation which provides health care for the nation can be so bloody complicated. AND widely abused. After all, you don't need to be a genius to work out how it is done:

Get Ill - See doctor - Go to Hospital (if necessary) - Get Treated - Go Home

But you can't do it like that. OK, the first two stages are fairly straightforward, once you have phoned your surgery and entered into a battle of wits with the Gatekeeper, known as the receptionist to most people. After being made to feel thoroughly ashamed that you would even dare to inconvenience "her" doctor with such trivialities as peritonitis, you enter into the "we can get you an appointment on Thursday" - which sounds good. Your spirits are lifted and you think, "Good, only one day until then - I might just live", before she throws in "October the 15th 2007". Bastard. She's won the round. You counter with an "But it really does hurt, and I don't attend on a regular basis", which seems to work. She then offers you an appointment at the "branch surgery", which is situated in the middle of the areas largest, and most unsavoury council housing estate (or sink-hole as I think they are commonly called), for the same day. So as not to offend, you accept and make a mental note to stop off at the local sport shop for a bullet proof vest and side arm for the trip.

GPs are generally OK. Once they've decided that you need something done, and that the prat in front of them will not accept that an abdomen full of sepsis-inducing bugs and other goodies is actually a virus that will clear up in a few days, you're generally on a good course for treatment and referral. And so you're off to casualty.

Now, I would have thought that to even the most premoridial lifeform walking around who has a basic understanding of the English language, "Accidents and Emergencies" should need very little explaination. But no. You traipse into the reception and join the queue of in-breds who have various "Accidents and Emergencies" ranging from a torn nail to fucking tooth ache! It becomes rapidly apparent that a wait is in order as the chavvy slag with the Burberry clad, ear ring wearing, tattooed rugrat at the front of the queue is having trouble understanding the questions asked by the receptionist - mainly name, address, date of birth etc. I stand thinking "please don't ask her what the problem is, it will turn into an episode of Trisha". And this is another thing - where do these morning chat shows get their participants from? I'll tell you where - A&E receptions.

My solution? Employ someone to filter out the dross. Not a triage nurse,but a bouncer. You know the score - "Sorry mate, unless your mate has his liver hanging out, he is not coming in", or, "that's a tooth ache. You need a dentist, of which there are none available in an Accident and Emergency department, so please go away". They could also handle the waiting room complaints. I actually watched a woman (OK she was pissed out of her mind) being dragged, unconscious into the reception by two off duty doctors. She was, quite rightly, taken into a cubicle and put into the "stop choking on your own vomit" position and left. A near-riot ensued in reception. One woman stated that she had been waiting for over six hours only to be overtaken by a pisshead. She wasn't dead, her condition hadn't deteriorated in those six hours - why was she there?

My next instalment? The post A&E Reception encounter.