How many Primary Care Trusts does it take to change a bandage?

I believe the other day I may, in a moment of drug-induced dedmentia, praised the NHS briefly. A tad premature, I think. Today, I was left in a festering pile of my own bitter, impotent fury thanks to some moronic bureaucratic decision to improve the service.

Admittedly, I haven't ended up having 20-times the lethal dose of a drug cocktail injected directly into my spine or my healthy kidney removed, but I am still amazed that - following on from its best year ever - incompetence in the name of the progress is considered an improvement.

Thanks to my toe's adventures in surgery, I needed to have my bandages removed and my dressings changed (nice). Of course, I was told while waiting to be released from the hospital that I would receive an appointment for two weeks' time for a post-surgery consult and removal of bandages, etc. I didn't. So I phoned up for one; and was offered one a further two weeks later. So, a foul-smelling bandage for another fortnight? I think not. Thus, I booked an appointment with my GP. Which brings us to this morning.

What do you think they do in a GP's surgery? A surgery? Well, in mine they don't have any dressings. Seriously. My patronising, decrepit idiot of a GP (but that's just my personal opinion, solely based on all my consultations with the fool) told me, "we cannot do that here." As I picked up my jaw from the floor and refocused my lost-to-incredulity eyes, I asked him - in slightly more polite tones - what the fuck he did actually do.

The upshot being? I have to book another appointment with the district nurse - a central surgery for the whole of the trust, where they change bandages... How the hell is this better than your local GP doing it? Not that my GP seemed to agree with me; he looked at me as if I was mad not to know that I had to book elsewhere.

Did I book? Did I bollocks. I went to the walk-in NHS centre in town, was seen within 10 minutes and was out in 20, fully re-dressed. Now that is progress...

Best foot forward

So, here I sit, 'working from home', with my mummified foot raised and in pain thinking, "I really ought to update my blog." I haven't touched it for months; not through a lack of anything to say, just through laziness. So, for the x-millionth time, I promise to update this bloody thing more frequently. Not that I will.

So what have I been up to? Well, skipping the last few months - honestly, if I remember later, I'll write about it. Short-term memory is where it's at - here's the potted history.

The wondrous Dresden Dolls played the Astoria the other day. Last time I saw them, at the Scala, there were about 50 people there. Now the place was full of Nine Inch Nails fans. Still, spread the gospel according to Amanda & Brian. And they were fabulous. The new album is more genius, and the whole show was spectacular. And they are happy for their shows to be filmed and stuck on that there interweb.

Since the gig, I've not been able to do a lot, owing to an operation on my foot that has left me hobbling around in an orthopaedic shoe and - last night - in considerable pain. Until yesterday, I was impressed with the NHS. Following a tedious and oft-transferred telephone call to the hospital yesterday, I've somewhat changed my mind. I may get into that at another time. Thus, I spent a week sitting on my sofa, popping painkillers (the one time I didn't take the drugs, while hosting a party to enjoy Lordi's magnificent Eurovision win, I awoke the next morning with the worst hangover since I was a student). I made the mistake of going back to work on Monday - I may get a seat on the tube, but it took hours to get in and hours to get back; which leads me rather un-neatly back to working from home. Where we began...