Matt Hancock and the Precious Jewel.

During the previous week I'd received a phone call. Apparently, I hadn't yet responded to the 'NHS' appointment letter that had been sent two weeks prior to that.' So, I'd received a reminder letter, then a follow-up phone call. 

I had responded! Better than this the NHS unit, with whom I was hoping to make the appointment, had already phoned me in order to arrange a suitable time. Done and dusted!

The sub-contracted 'e Referral Service,' operative went on to elaborate, that 'they' didn't actually know this, because 'they' weren't able to view the NHS appointments system. The role of this curious group was to send out letters to various patients, requesting that those same patients phone a given number, stating both their 'NHS' and 'appointment reference' numbers, so that a suitable appointment could be made on their behalf. But, the 'e Referral Service' weren't actually on the NHS system.

I told the person the date of my appointment. The person on the end of the line did seem to know what the purpose of my appointment was, also he knew the location of the scheduled appointment, but not that the appointment had already been scheduled, nor did he know the date of said appointment.

Somewhere, Matt Hancock was sitting in a rotatable desk chair, set of virtual reality-projection-glasses strapped to his face.

Once I had clarified that an appointment was already organised the 'e Referral Service' instructed that I should attend the scheduled appointment, and then contact the 'e Referral Service' again, in order to let them know that the appointment had been attended. I'd already decided to do the first part thereof.

* Amended 10th February. When I actually got around to 'attending' the appointment I was met by a rather stony-faced chap at reception. He asked me if I ever checked my messages, to which I enquired as to when such a message might have been left. Around 09:00 on the morning of the appointment, he elaborated, this being some five minutes after I'd already left the apartment. I learned, from the receptionist, that the funding had been cut, that staff were turning up to treat patients, only to later be informed that they could not be paid. So, we'd 'Taken back control!' a bit more of it, so soon after having, 'Got Brexit done!'- keeping it simple for the hard of learning. 'Makes one proud to be British,' was not my first thought.

Pertinent to the above incident, insofar that this also involved our wonderful NHS- a jewel upon a flawed isle- on the following Sunday my partner was given due cause to ferry me to 'A and E,' at the Norfolk and Norwich Hospital. We were acting on advice given at Norwich's Walk In Centre, so as to avoid another bout of impending pyelonephritis.

The fever was headed off at the pass, care of the dose of gentamicin being drip-fed through the cannula affixed to my right arm, whilst I was in the waiting area. With the wait for a bed seeming ever longer, never appearing to diminish, we suggested to the attending doctor that a short trip home might be preferable to an extended wait for an available bed, that it would additionally free-up beds for others, of which there were a growing number. The doctor persuasively argued against such a plan.

Several hours later, at around 23:00, I finally persuaded Kerry to go home and to get some sleep, prior to her recommencing work on the Monday morning. I was, I insisted, anyway safely ensconced within the A and E Department waiting room, awaiting a bed. At around 01:00 on the Monday morning the room was full to capacity and further patients were beginning to spill into the adjacent corridor. The nurses and the doctors hurried back and forth, updating people as and when, making further assessments, reappraising priorities, medicating as necessary, trying to ensure that everyone waiting was not deteriorating, waiting for beds, thus further treatment, to become available.

When the sub-contracted catering service did not respond to one of the nurse's phone-call requests, that a tea and coffee should be provided, two of the nurses organised the beverages for everyone present, biscuits were also made available. "Are you the main supervisor?" one patient asked of the man serving him tea. "No, I'm one of the nurses." he explained. At around 03:20 on the Monday I decided to update Kerry, with a message for her to view upon waking. Just over an hour later the nurse who had initially seen me back in the middle of Sunday afternoon excitedly informed me that, "... there is a bed!" She apologised for the long wait. A bag of fluids was attached to the cannula.

A hospital porter skilfully wheeled me through silent corridors, to the appointed bed, Bed Number One, which had recently made up with an absence of pillow. Behind an adjacent curtain another patient was snoring loudly. I thanked the porter and climbed under the covers, repurposing my jacket as a pillow.

Just as I was dropping off so I was awoken, to be updated with news that a bed in the Acute Medical Unit (K) had been made available. As will soon become obvious, this really meant that a 'space' had been made available. I was informed by 'somebody' that the bed/space I was currently occupying was already, "... needed by somebody else."

I slipped along twilit corridors, perhaps there was a lift involved. Bed Number Two (slot) was in the isolation room in the Acute Medical Unit (K). The door was quietly closed and I was able to sleep until the dawn.

Somewhere Matt Hancock tilted his head back and smiled at the virtual projection. He gently moved his chair back and forth, right then left, staring into the cyber-void.

Bed Number Two' was situated within a room that had been fitted with a curtain that could be pulled across between the bed and the door, affording further privacy. There was a cupboard in which to store bags, and there were two pedal bins adjacent to the door. One pf the bin's foot pedals was missing, so staff and patients were required to prise open the lid and to deposit discarded medical and other waste as and when. Although it was decidedly compromised the bin had been retained, rather than being thrown out.

For breakfast I had porridge, made with water, two slices of toast and marmalade. I dozed and read my way through the day, giving samples of blood as required of me. Doctors visited and took notes, explained things. A second bag of fluids was attached to my cannula. I requested, and one of the nurses was able to locate, a pillow. She placed a folded blanket also underneath, explaining that the pillow was rather without substance, like the toast. Everyone was as helpful, skillful or efficient as one could reasonably hope of them.

Kerry brought in lunch, so that I would not have to endure more hospital food. Quite how 'Las Iguanas' was able to provide food at all, on such a restrictive budget, might conceivably have involved necromancy. Even so, the food was such that it appeared to have been conjured to contain minimal taste. Good hearty food, just what we patients needed... but sadly were not provided with.

Whilst I was consuming my lunch I became aware of two characters bustling back and forth, purposeful! In due course the more bumptious of the pairing entered my room... "You're going this way!" he or she announced- gender was not immediately evident. The manner of said character was not overly endearing. I explained that I had only been here half a day and was thence furnished with the information that, " This bed is needed by someone else."

Between hurried mouthfuls of goat's cheese salad I was able to mound my belongings upon the bed, following on behind, moments later, with my meal in hand. Bed Number Three was situated in the Acute Medical Unit proper, one of six slots, by the window. I was able to finish eating.

Blood was taken, heart-rate and blood-pressure were taken. In the evening a further dose of gentamicin was intravenously administered, effectively tying me to my bed. I fell asleep listening to music- iPod- that might wonderfully deaden the world beyond.

On Tuesday morning, around 01:00, so disappointingly early, I awoke to discover that my legs had become rather restricted. I glanced down to discover that all of my just-recently cupboarded travelling kit was now loaded onto the foot of the bed. Cannula again hanging free, I was free to wander into the corridor and to find a nurse, who duly explained that she had tried her best not to wake me, that I was to be moved yet again. I asked- pointless really- whether such a move was strictly necessary and was enlightened that, "This bed is needed by someone else."

Elsewhere, Matt Hancock mouth curled into an approximation of the smile of an enchanted child, gazing contentedly into the nation's cyber-future.

There was something quite otherworldly about being so efficiently and silently whisked through the darkened corridors, that had been so recently peopled with busy hospital staff. The sensation was strengthened, not necessarily heightened, when I was ushered along different corridors, ones that were increasingly partially blocked by gleaming medical equipment, ones that I had never before seen. Ideas of body parts being harvested slipped through the back of my mind. The corridors narrowed further, the corners tightened. The porter told me to expect my own room again, own room but smaller.

In the wee small hours the porter carefully manoeuvred me into a tidy white room, with its own door. I was now in Bed Number Five, in the Day Procedure Unit. The rooms that I had passed along the way, many of them were the theatres in which various smaller operations were routinely undertaken. A nurse informed that the nearest toilet was, "... quite a distance from here." She said that she would bring me some bottles in which to pee. A passing cleaner gently pushed closed the door to my room and behind it there was another door, to an en suite. I climbed into bed and slept until the dawn.

In the morning proper I missed the breakfast trolley, as the Las Iguanas staff were unaware that I was reading behind the door on the other side of the corridor, "... both sides!" the nurse had instructed. A senior nurse informed me that the bed I was in was, "... already needed by someone else." She busied herself outside the door, whilst I was permitted to consume a bowl of cereal and to drink a cup of tea.

Way up in the aether, Matt Hancock was heard to emit a curious approximation of a chuckle. Was that a faint beep? Was he perhaps amusing himself with Space Invaders?

When my belongings were relocated to the site of Bed Number Five 'slot,' I opted to follow on foot. I suggested to the senior nurse that this constant relocating of patients could not be assisting much with patient recovery times, or indeed likelihoods, that it was somewhat counterproductive. The senior nurse agreed. It was made clear to me that I was on the verge of being discharged, dependent upon the results of a couple of blood tests. Blood was taken, blood-pressure measured, as was heart-rate. Later in the morning a doctor updated me on the situation, my discharge letter was being prepared. Another nurse removed my cannula. Although Kerry would be unable to take me home until she had finished work for the day I was told that, "... somebody else will be needing the bed." A relocation to the Aylsham Suite was suggested.

My discharge letter arrived- 'Summary of Care and Complications (Please include any procedures, infections, incident reports and high cost drugs)'- as did another series of antibiotics, ciprofloxacin. I had not before used this strain of antibiotic, ten tablets, five days! I packed up my belongings and thanked the nurses. I felt considerably better than I had on the Sunday. I stated my intention to leave- I had anyway already been discharged! The nurses reminded me of the option of the Aylsham Suite, with its coffee machine. I nodded towards the buses outside the window. "The bus stop is right outside, I'll be fine, Thanks!"

... maybe, or maybe not! My very next visit to the local pharmacy was the point at which I was to discover that the medication that wass keeping me from further visits to Accident and Emergency would be out of stock for the next week. Maybe it'll put me closer to my God, who doesn't actually exist! "Ah, the 'taking back control' thing..." he might otherwise muse, "... turns out free will also requires an element of independent thought."

Matt Hancock studied Economics at Exeter College, Oxford, then Economics again- of course he did- at Christ's College, Cambridge. Matt Hancock understands economics... questionably so.

But absolutely nothing else!