Alison in Blunderland.

When I arrived fresh out of university to start my new job in a local authority it was before the advent of technology. We had a typing pool and I was allocated one which would be responsible for deciphering my handwritten scrawl. I would get it in my In Tray, correct it, send it back and this process could go on for some days on a loop. I however of course had to type in Russian myself so I was instructed in the various processes involved.

I was told I had to make two copies. On one I had to hand-write the word PINK. I asked why. They said “how else will we know which one is the pink one?”. I felt myself disappear down the rabbit hole. In my naivety I then said “but it’s not pink”. She adopted the manner of someone trying to explain an iPhone to an elderly aunt. “Well, pink disnae photocopy”. That’s clear then. I tottered back to my office wondering when the Queen was about to shout “Off With Her Head”.

Then I discovered the obsession with grades. We had an Admin Officer who knew everyone’s grades and referred to people accordingly. “Well I heard that 5-8, say to that 9-11” etc etc. As a PO 5-8 I was advised I was in the elite and therefore had the right to a swipe card to the Water Door. I fantasised about what this was – some sort of medieval sluice or underground spring. In fact it turned out that back in the 60s it had been the home of the Water Board but the name had stuck.

No-one questioned any of this. Except me.

I wonder why so many simply follow such nonsensical meaninglessness seemingly without question whereas there are people like me who get into endless trouble by saying like an annoying three year old “But WHY?”

 

 

This was all a useful training ground for my time with the NHS both as a patient and someone attempting to work on the inside.

Take a (not very) random example – the NHS Horizons Team. I was contracted to them for over two years via a Parcel of Rogues called Capita. I am much happier organising my own travel as I get very anxious and it helps me feel a modicum of control. Plus, as I have a Disability Railcard it actually SAVES the NHS money to allow me to do this. Not so. This group of self-professed rebels adhered rigidly to the policy of booking through some agency charging way over the odds it seems. “But WHY?”

The procurement process made the case of the pink paper that wasn’t pink seem perfectly normal. I had to pretend that I was a company delivering training and development events. I had to promise that I had checked the passports of all my staff. I also had to confirm that I was providing polystyrene cups at my non-existent training events. I finally had to provide evaluations of my non-existent events from my non existent trainees. “But WHY?”

As a patient, I have fallen down the rabbit hole many many times. I am currently occupying an acute bed that I do not need as I became so unwell with stress from working with the above team that I was unable to look after myself. Paramedics were so concerned they issued a formal safeguarding alert. At the point of admission, there should have been joined up working between the NHS and social services on working towards a safe discharge. Apparently however, I had to be declared medically fit before Social Services would take any action. Yesterday I was declared fit and there was not a social service bod to be found anywhere near me. So I am in a bed much-needed by someone else as if stuck in some surreal version of the Peckham Travelodge. “But WHY?”

Last night I encountered the arcane and labyrinthine process of trying to get pain relief at night in hospital. I have some joint and bone thing going on which from time to time gives me quite unbearable pain. I get asked to grade my pain from 1-10 and this was a 10 without a doubt. I felt sick and dizzy as a result of it. I asked for help at around 9pm.

I waited. I waited some more. Then about midnight I went to ask where they were at with getting me help. The responses included “we tried very hard to get a doctor.” I asked for specifics of just what they did. The answer was “we wrote your name in the book”. Off I went spiralling down the rabbit hole again.

This time the Queen said “we have to prioritise, you know”. I discovered this book is where the details of anyone in pain or needing fluids etc at night have to be handwritten by staff. It is a bog standard notebook. Every ward has one. Then if a doctor happens to swing by, they will look at the book and decide from there whether someone needs to be seen. If pushed, the nursing staff will track down the Site Manager and based on, I don’t know, casting the runes, will then decide to proceed to contact the doctor or not which was clearly what happened in my case. By this time I was pacing the corridor in agony. The two nurses on duty told me they agreed with me, that they were both from other countries, in neither of which would such a system be tolerated. It added to their pressure and led to delays or total absence of care during the night for people like myself in dire need. This is in a hospital with its own cinema and an indoor palm tree garden. The reliance on the notebook from the local Rymans or wherever is such an anomaly. “It’s the way we do things round here” “But WHY?”

People are apparently too scared to question unless their minds are wired like mine. They are ready to accept a piece of white paper is rendered pink by writing PINK on it.

BUT WHY?