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...
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