There is an old phrase which I have just invented: you always remember your first doctor’s surgery. Mine was on Wick Road, Brislington, near the junction with Wick Crescent. To all intents and purposes, the surgery was a house. The front room was a waiting room with seats all around the walls. The surgery was a small, neatly carpeted room that was the size of a small kitchen. If I close my eyes, not only can I see it, I can smell it too.
The door between the waiting room and the doctor’s surgery was never locked, but you never went in unless the doctor told you to. There was no receptionist, there were no appointments. If you were unwell, you turned up, sat down and saw the doctor in the order that patients arrived. You observed the first person arriving after you, counted how many patients were before you and it all worked beautifully.
There were two doctors. An older Scots gentleman called Dr Carmichael was one. Many people liked to see him because he was kindly and gentle. The other doctor rejoiced in the name – and don’t ask me how I remember this – C Aubrey Mills. He was younger, with sleeked back greying hair. He was brisk, to the point. The difference between the two could be explained thus. I once had problems with verrucas. Dr Carmichael would treat the offending wart by gently scraping it away, almost painlessly. It would take a while, but he would get there. Dr Mills would gouge straight into the foot, extracting the verruca in one go, leaving a crater-sized hole. It hurt too, but it worked. Always straight to the point, I got to prefer Dr Mills.
There were small surgeries dotted throughout Bristol in those days. Wick Road had a good number. It seemed to work very nicely thank you. But I suspect it was not the most economical way of running a health service. Down the road was a larger “health centre” called Brooklea in nearby St Annes. Eventually, the smaller surgeries closed down and everyone moved to health centres. It was a change I never really got over. From being able to see a doctor – and not just any old doctor but the doctor of my choice – when I needed to, I was now at the beck and call of the dreaded receptionist. The receptionist now owns and runs the world, or at least she (it is always a ‘she’) thinks she does.
Now, you need to ring up the surgery for an appointment and listen to an automated voice give you all manner of options. You finally get through and the all-powerful, all-knowing receptionist will almost certainly tell you there are no appointments until a week tomorrow. “Can I see a particular doctor because I do not like to have to spend time explaining my condition to someone different, over and over again?” The answer will be a form of words which will actually translate to this: “Are you serious? I’ve got a job to do here and you patients are just slowing me down. If it wasn’t for these sick people, this surgery would operate like clockwork. If you insist, a locum doctor will see you a week Thursday at 11.30am.” “But I work. I can’t get time off.” “Well, I’m sorry (I’m not really) but that’s all there is. Take it or leave it.”
In my experience, doctors are as good as ever. It’s just the act of getting to see them that I find problematical. The whole thing is cumbersome, awkward, stressful inefficient and not conducive to good health.
Obviously, I am not remotely critical of my own local surgery, oh no. Just in case our local receptionist gets to read this piece, I’d better say that she is an absolute treasure, in no way an obstructive jobsworth.
David Cameron and his odious Health Secretary, Jeremy Hunt, the well known misprint, say they want a 24/7 NHS. At the normal first point of contact, I’d just like a simple system whereby I can see the doctor I want to see at a time that suits me. Is that really too much to ask? “I’m afraid it is, Sir. We have no appointments his side of Christmas. Have you considered going home to die?”
