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Another week under the shadow of NHS-land.
Hospitals are battling flu outbreaks, which might explain the rash of irrational decisions—or perhaps not. Junior Resident doctors (or whatever the latest title is) are preparing to strike yet again.

Wes Streeting—once the figure many of us pinned our hopes on—has tried to head off the disruption. His proposals? More training opportunities, expanded placements, and prioritising jobs for UK trainees. Sensible enough, but why now? Surely these measures could have been offered long ago. Would they have been accepted then? Or is the uncomfortable truth that doctors simply aren’t considered important enough to employ in greater numbers, even as waiting lists spiral out of control?

And yet, the looming strike threatens hospitals already overwhelmed by flu. Which, ironically, proves the opposite: doctors are essential. The contradiction is confusing. I just don’t get it.

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Meanwhile absolutely nothing further from UCLH etc along with Team Dipstick. Silence – deafening silence.

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Joint Jaw Clinic Appointment: Luton

Wednesdays’ hospital visit featured Surgeon Mr MaxFax 1 (whose bank account is already fattened nicely with my contributions) and Surgeon Mr Orthodontic. I arrived, weaving past the hospital’s latest avant-garde installation: roadworks. The photo I snapped made me grin—it was the only entertainment of the day. See below.

Mr Orthodontic appeared, usually the picture of calm and charm. MaxFax 1 had gone missing in action, ignoring calls, emails, and even the sacred hospital bleeps. The tension in the room could best be described as apoplectic.

Mr OrthoD poked around, but quickly realised he couldn’t really do much. Without MaxFax’s divine input, progress was impossible. I, ever the resourceful patient, suggested an x-ray—because nothing kills time quite like irradiating oneself for sport. How did I know that trick? Years of NHS theatre training, of course.

X-ray completed, surgeon still missing, I offered to leave. I trudged home, the proud owner of yet another wasted day. What happens next? Who knows. Perhaps a sequel: Waiting for MaxFax.

Ridiculous.

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I did however stop on my way to Luton to see our 89 year old friend and erstwhile neighbour in her care home. If ever there’s a positive here is one. Her sheer delight at seeing me arrive clutching wine gums ( our covid rescue packs!) and a poinsettia, regaling me with stories of her headteacher days…then getting muddled by telling me she knocks on my door every day but I am never in. Maybe I could move into the care home? Wonderful Min-the invincible.

Also this week my GP surgery rang. They never give out their names so I don’t know who I am talking to…whatever, the message was: Did I know I was overdue kidney function tests and why hadn’t I done them. Interestingly I do in fact have a nephrology consultant phone appointment next week. I have had blood tests at UCLH ( last time I was there, I suggested I should to the hapless registered /resident/ junior doctor or whatever whoever he was. Those bloods don’t seem to fit the GP profile nor can they see them anyway. I was told to get more done locally. OK said I and requested the ‘forms’. Whilst on the phone I checked online…no appointments til 2026 for bloods. “Just go to the bloods, the GP person said. They might let you in.

8.00 am I turned up at bloods.Its called North Wing in Bedford. Jan and I sometimes went together. We made other patients laugh by pointing out the signs above the dilapidated rooms simply said: ‘Bleeding rooms”. We oft wondered if this referred to leeches. Or even slang for hopelessly useless rooms…you get my drift.

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The receptionist — a Rottweiler in a freshly refurbished glass cubicle — was distinctly unimpressed by the sheaf of papers I handed over. I explained, as politely as I could, that my tests were overdue and I was hoping for results before my hospital appointment. Her expression remained utterly inscrutable.

So I tried a different angle: “My GP sent me…” Still nothing. Getting nowhere fast, I switched to flattery. I complimented her on the beautifully revamped clinic — not a single “Bleeding Rooms” sign in sight — and even managed to charm her colleague by sympathising about the chaos they must have endured during the renovations.

Miraculously, it worked. After a round of muttering about “three to five days for appointments… go online… blah blah blah…”, she unearthed a cancellation. In five minutes’ time.

Result. I was in. I’d made it. Unbelievable.

But honestly — is it really necessary to negotiate, cajole, and charm our way through every single NHS task. ~Bleeding hell~

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Meanwhile, I am supposed to be on a train to Manchester. In theory. The first train was cancelled due to a “fault on the line”. The one I’m currently on is delayed… because of staff shortages. At some point — hopefully before nightfall — I might actually arrive for the final Hospital Education Event I’m doing this year.

My slide deck is already submitted. As usual, it’s just a collection of photos of my various bits and bobs — no, not those bits — the electrical stimulators, chargers, catheters, drugs, instils, antibiotics… all the classic “hospital‑at‑home” of my spare room. Then, when I get there, I more or less wing it.

Wish me luck. Perhaps Wes, as he bids for PM post, could offer the train companies some “training opportunities” and prioritise getting actual drivers to drive actual trains. Novel concept.