Any regular readers who had the stamina to soldier on to the end of my last entry might have been left with the uneasy feeling that that might not be the end of the non-coronavirus testing saga, and that they might find themselves subjected to a further chapter in the not too distant future. If so, their apprehension is about to prove well-founded, probably a lot sooner sooner than they might have feared.
Having been told to anticipate that the results of last week’s hard-won test would be available in a mere five days time, I received an SMS yesterday evening announcing their receipt a day ahead of schedule. Verily I say unto you, a truly world-beating testing regime – even if it isn’t for Covid-19. The SMS said: ‘The result of your recent test has been received. A further test is advised – please collect a form from the surgery at your convenience.’ No three-minute phone-call to say that the result had been received, and not to worry but they thought it would be helpful for me to have another test, or something similar. Just a bald SMS giving no indication as to who it ‘is advised’ by, or for what reason. One could only assume that whatever the test had showed up couldn’t be too serious because the style of communication suggested that if, for example, the test had revealed a third-stage brain tumour, the SMS message would have read something like, ‘The result of your recent test has been received, the purchase of a coffin is advised’ or, perhaps more humanely, ‘investment in a funeral plan is advised.’ ‘At your convenience’ rang a little hollow, given that last week’s saga was initiated by the receipt of an electronic form for me to print that didn’t require me, in a Covid-ridden world, to drive in and collect a hard-copy from the surgery.
So, at my inconvenience, I drove into the surgery first thing this morning, idly wondering whether the NHS might not be on a secret mission to stack up the mileage so that petrol sales could contribute towards life-support for the economy. I arrived at the surgery half an hour after it was supposed to have opened to find the front door locked and no sign of life whatever, although there were a couple of cars in the reserved parking spaces. There was no sign on the door indicating opening hours and, as with last week’s surgery, the NHS had not been able to afford the installation of the promised bell to ring. I checked that my mobile was still boldly declaring the surgery to be OPEN, which appeared to be an outright lie directly out of the Johnson playbook. So I waited for ten minutes hoping somebody would come, and then steeled myself to try the surgery’s telephone number, which of all the telephone numbers I have ever phoned is the one guaranteed to ensure the most rapid loss of a caller’s will to live. An asset for an undertaker but not, one might have thought, for a Medical Group. When the interminable advice about Covid-19, which I must have heard thirty times over the past few weeks, had dragged itself to an end, I opted for the ‘Reception queries’ number and after a miraculously short two or three minutes got a real living person on the end of the line, which seemed a good start. It didn’t last. I asked whether the surgery, which claimed to be open, was in fact open, the operator said she didn’t know (which seemed odd, given that the number I had phoned was ostensibly the number of the surgery outside whose very front door I was at that moment standing) but she would find out for me, and asked me to hang on for a minute, at which point the phone went dead. I tried to phone her back after a few minutes, only to be told that the ‘Reception query’ number was now closed and that I should try again in two hours time. Kafka came to mind again.
After another ten minutes of waiting, I decided that there couldn’t be any harm in banging on the door – it looked strong enough to withstand the force of any pent-up frustration the exercise might release. Sure enough, a little bit of sustained, but commendably restrained, knocking dragged an extremely surly receptionist out of the bowels of the building, clearly deeply resentful of being interrupted doing whatever it is that receptionists do when doors are locked to ensure that there isn’t anybody to receive. ‘Do you have an appointment?’ she shouted through the door. ‘No,’ I replied, at which point she turned around to walk back to whatever it was she had been doing. ‘I was told to come here and pick up a form “at my convenience”,’ I added hastily. The weight of irony I injected into the last three words passed her by entirely. She demanded to know my name, date of birth etc. and went off to check whether I was lying. When it turned out that I wasn’t just a stray passer-by who had nothing better to do than waste her time telling lies and pretending to want a blood-test form, she grudgingly opened a folder that had been lying just inside the door all along, waiting for me and others like me, handed me the form and told me to go to the infamous Nuffield Hospital, scene of last week’s tribulations. I told her what had happened last week, and asked for an appointment at one of the Group’s clinics. She couldn’t give me an appointment, that wasn’t her job, I would just have to go to the Nuffield Hospital, which she assured me had reopened for tests, and have the test done there.
Wearily resigned to my fate, I headed back to my car to try my luck at the Nuffield again. As I got into the car my phone rang and the original receptionist I had managed to contact apologised profusely that I had been cut off. I thanked her and told her I was on my way to the Nuffield Hospital for the blood-test. ‘Oh no, you don’t want to go there,’ she said hastily. ‘They are only doing emergency blood tests there now.’ ‘Wouldn’t having to have a retest count as an emergency?’ I asked. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I think you would be in the queue for a very long time on the day after a public holiday, and when you got to the front of the queue they would probably say yours wasn’t an emergency. But, in any case, I’ve managed to get them to fit you in for a test at the Water Lane clinic tomorrow, if you would like that.’ I assured her that I would like that very much indeed, and thanked her profusely for her kindness. There was no need for her to have done that for me, and her thoughtfulness went much further than she could have imagined to ease the frustration. But, dear reader (as the rather quaint saying goes), don’t bank on this being the last chapter of this particular saga.
There was a time not so long ago, before the blindly ideological drive for ‘austerity’, and the viciously xenophobic immigration policies of the past decade of Tory government put unsustainable pressure on GP practices, when I would have been phoned with my results by my GP, told what they meant and invited in for a blood-test on the same day. Sadly, those days are gone, and will almost certainly never return.