In many ways I’ve endured enjoyed a very fortunate life. Not least because, perhaps unusually, I’ve had almost no dealings with the National Health Service. I mean, apart from a couple of vaccinations before trips to heathen foreign parts I’ve hardly seen a doctor since I left school. This surprises me as much as it may surprise you.
So I’m never quite sure what passes for ‘good’ service on the NHS. What is normal in an organisation of its size, diversity and complexity? And how, in any case, do we measure ‘success’? I have a sneaking suspicion that we often do so by rebadging failure as normal.
As I type this, you see, my mother is confined to her bed, unable to walk on account of, quite literally, crippling pain in her back and leg. Her situation has been so bad that a doctor actually came to the house to see her. (This wasn’t always such a novel experience, I believe.)
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