NHS

We’ve both had cause to visit the local pesthouse lately (routine: nothing sinister) and had differing experiences of their automated check in.  It wasn’t working at all when Martyn visited.  Today I scanned the bar code on my appointment letter, was told I’d successfully checked in, and smugly took a seat in reception as instructed.  Having not been sent for three quarters of an hour after the time of my appointment, I went and asked at reception, and was told by the fierce Glaswegian receptionist ‘och ye should’ve just went straight down’.  At outpatients’ reception I was told that the system had not in fact checked me in.  Well, I was seen (politely) about an hour later than planned, and sent on my way rejoicing.  The good news is that the car park system wasn’t working either, so I got a freebie.  I fear this is all too predictable in a cash-strapped NHS Trust (rated as being in need of improvement by the CQC).  I’ve asked to be discharged from the particular clinic, since they have far more important things to do with their time.  

We’re looking a bit more respectable today: Ben and Duncan have trimmed the hedge and weeded along the outside of the fence and at the front.  I can still do the dead-heading and watering of tomatoes and stuff in containers, but I’m convinced that having given up kneeling to get at the weeds accounts for the better attitude of my crap knees.  A propos, MRI at sparrowfart this Sunday down at Benenden, and a telephone follow-up next month.  I suppose it’s a factor of ageing that we seem to spend more time in dialogue with medics.

The garden is yielding well despite the drought.  We have more tomatoes than we can use, there are more spuds to come, and the first of our onions went in the bolognese the other day.  The runner beans, on the other hand, are a dead loss.  We may have some storms next week after the coming heatwave: if they fill the water butts, that’ll be more than welcome.