It always seems disingenuous to have a moan at the N.H.S in Great Britain, as so many people work so hard on what some would consider little pay to give us the care that they trained for many years to provide. The truth is that they are governed by poor management and weak budgets, a combination that could ultimately cost lives and probably has.
Many of us have to wait in excess of 2 weeks to be able to see their G.P., once of coarse you have bypassed the stereotypical matriarchal receptionist who will ask what your problem is and make an medical assessment based on experience gained watching “Holby City” last week, and depending on the system your surgery uses, “your” Doctor invariably has nothing available any time soon.
Once in, you have between 8-10 minutes to make your case that will justify your time of this professionals busy day, and in my case it would seem it did, by being ordered directly to hospital to undergo 27 hours of tests, some of which were quite “invasive” (no, not that invasive) leaving me feeling that perhaps my wait was impeding any recovery that I was about to endure.
Happily however, although life changing, my diagnosis was not life threatening, and every precaution was taken to ensure my good health whilst within the hospital walls. My care was taken seriously by the friendly and informative staff that surrounded me on every busy shift they completed. The building itself, which is 50 years older than the National Health service, was tired but fundamentally clean.
My latest experience of this struggling system has highlighted to me the flaws that have to be approached vigorously, in order to safeguard its future and success in this country of growing population and increasing elderly residents.
Very few of us actually enjoy shopping, least of all me, and of all places a petrol station has to be the worst. The new dynamic of shopping for groceries whilst filling the tank up has always been a bit alien to me, although beginning to appreciate the concept, so much so, I also shop at one of these “Express” type places regardless of my need for fuel. And it was on such an occasion that I encountered a very unpleasant individual, and the events of a few seconds screamed volumes of the kind of people who are employed to deal with the public.
Foolishly, I had chosen a time in the afternoon that is dedicated to Mums up and down the country to collect their offspring, and although I am fully aware that many do this on foot, you can not argue that our roads fill substantially during this period, and I make no jokes for the need of a 4×4 vehicle at all.
As with most forecourts, the general flow leads you to a pump, although you can normally bypass the area and proceed to the parking spaces for the supermarket, while preforming this manoeuvre I saw an opportunity to park in a soon to be vacant plot in an otherwise busy car park. Pausing briefly to allow a young mother and small child to reverse and leave the space, my attention was drawn to a heckle of abuse aimed in my direction. For it was completely without my knowledge that I had intentionally caused the momentary delay of someone who had more rights on the highway than a lowly shopper, The foul mouthed torrent of abuse was coming from a van emblazoned with company name and logo, and from it’s drivers window the occupier was publicly sharing their displeasure in front of an audience of parents and school aged children, I was further surprised that the culprit was a woman, who could have quite possibly bore children of her own years previously.
Although I initially calmly sailed through the mire of English vocabulary, I was aghast at the thought that this person was not only representing her employer sat in the van, but was totally unashamed of her actions and said employer was equally unsurprised when I phoned to report it, to this end, shame on them!
Now that our doorways are safe from grinning politicians, our letterboxes from reams of “Printed on recycled paper” leaflets and headlines are slowly returning to hamster eating puns, we can raise our heads and take a look forward into the unknown.
For regardless of whether the “General Election 2015” resulted in how you would favour, this is how it is going to be for the next half decade. Again, rights and wrongs of the election process are brought into question, causing the cloud of politics to loom over us a little longer and speculation into the honesty of the incumbent government will no doubt rage on.
But, rest assured you are not likely to see your “New” M.P until they require your vote once more, so, sit back and enjoy the journey and maybe, just maybe we can continue our daily lives without a stakeboard telling us what to do.
How are you coping with the daily diet of politics at breakfast, dinner and for tea? If you have managed to avoid it then I applaud you, but alas most of us mortals are living in a snow cone of blinding false facts and untruths, these of course used to be called lies, as with everything, did not meet the criteria of our hopeful candidates.
Watching these events constantly are the world media, producing a full menu of flowcharts, graphs and polls, and we are slowly becoming numb to any revelations in this mudslinging to and thro banquet of hypocrisy, when the reality is we have already made up our minds regardless of any new titbits that is revealed to us among the feeding frenzy for the top job.
Our only saving grace is that we have not long to go, and although they are bound for the final push, our thresholds will soon be safe from that smiling, baby kissing and reassuring member of parliament, who undoubtedly you will not see for another half decade.
Food banks are becoming more and more common in the UK, helping struggling families to meet a basic standard of living, and I am embarrassed that we should need them. These charities are kept running by either a sterling donation or one of food directly, with support from the public, some supermarkets and local churches, and quite apart from fixing the problem, politicians are more than happy to pose for the camera supporting their great work.
In order to qualify for this support, generally, you have to be referred by an agency or such like, social services, Doctors and in some cases the Church. On arrival you are given up to 5 days of food stuffs in relation to the size of family in question, in some cases clothes and footwear are offered, which have also been donated. We are reminded daily by media puppets and their parliament string pullers, of the benefits culture, but some of these families are just low wage earners, who are quite literally working themselves into poverty.
Historically governments have treated the poor and the reliant with an appalling attitude, entire families in workhouses, orphans shipped off to countries in need of labour, and asylums locking away the mentally fragile, and yes, all this in the 20th century. Hopefully the mistakes of the past will not be repeated in this century and to provide help where it is needed domestically before outpouring our resources to the rest of the planet.
Two hours, yes 2 painful hours, that is what it has taken me to travel my usual six miles into work for my night-shift. An area that relies on the motorway to free up local traffic burst in to complete chaos when it was closed for the best part of the day and night.
My emotions were thrown into survival mode, so while creeping along at a snails pace, planning to circumnavigate the countryside in order to be smarter than the guy behind me, I began taking stock of any supplies I may have in my temporary home, mints, chocolate or any liquid available since the last event? Hoping my full bladder holds out, whilst looking for any utensil that would make an emergency potty and realising it would be a very public affair had I have to use it. Not to mention my ageing car and the new smells and noises coming from it, praying all the time that I will be saved the humiliation of a steaming or smoky breakdown.
And in the ongoing furore that resembled a scene from the pages of history and the evacuation of a large City, you are reminded that a life has been lost in the carnage that preceded, and that I was able to return home or work, a little late, but alive.
Tearing open the parcel that had arrived for me, I quickly realised it was the item I had ordered from the on-line auction site Ebay only days before, a very specialised piece of equipment that I will not bore you with details of. After checking everything was just so, I continued to read the invoice and what I thought were shipping/specifications/instructions, so, imagine my disbelief when I discovered the dreaded junk mail.
The very thing that manages to instantly upset me and something I have dedicated my life to preventing, well maybe that’s a little extreme, but nether the less still annoying. The vendor of said object had taken their time to carefully pack the instrument for dispatch adding not one but three unrelated mail shots in the packaging, it is not as though they were advertising the goods they have on offer, but those of another company.
Armed with my new found knowledge of UPVC windows and an internet casino site, which I have need of neither, I decided that I would take action in the form of sending them back directly and to broadcast my opinions on the auction feed back forum. A slight strong you may think, but, if they are being paid to distribute these leaflets in the outgoing orders, then it may effect business if somebody were to highlight this.
Caveat venditor, seller beware.