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The Grand NHS Hamster Wheel: Or, My Annual Service and the Case of the Vanishing Appointment.

Well, folks, gather 'round, because it's that glorious time of year again: the annual human MOT. You know, the one where the medics review one's health and tell you you're good for at least another six months, and all body parts are still in the places they physiologically should be. Or, that you should think about slowly drawing the curtains of your life and hope that the rail doesn't fall off somewhere in the midst of doing so.

Now, being already aware that the kidneys, pancreas, and possibly liver, too, are well beyond serviceable warranty, this only leaves the brain and heart in fully functioning order. Okay, a modicum of exaggeration there, as anyone who reads these blog posts will no doubt cast some aspersions as to how well my brain functions. So, for now, at least, all bets are on the heart. But this isn't the point. No matter whether human or manufactured, everything breaks down beyond repair, until eventually, kaput. I'm simply ticking each box on my metaphorical clipboard of life because it amuses me to do so, while also serving to lift the conversational mood during this scheduled, annual visit to the surgery.

To be entirely honest, I never usually bother with these and have declined to attend over the past few years. However, this morning, I read the text and thought I might as well give it a go, and then proceeded to follow the link provided towards making an appointment. Gone was the perfectly good and easy-to-use website that once was, where every part of it was so simple. Instead, I was faced with an NHS banner, which then directed me to 'locate' my surgery. You know, like I didn't already know where it was, and still would have had it been left as things were in the first place.

Anyway, having found my way to the 'appointments' link, I clicked on it and was duly redirected to a further page (see images) where I was informed that the 'service was temporarily unavailable'. The irony; it's a bitter pill to swallow. Here I am, a ticking time bomb of potentially failing organs, attempting to proactively engage with the very system designed to keep me from spontaneously combusting, only to be met with a digital brick wall.

Oh, and then it further suggested I telephone instead. Have you tried recently to phone your surgery for an appointment? Yes, I love being 499 in the queue, of course! I mean, what else do I have to do for the best part of the day, other than listen to awful piped music until I expire from either boredom or that damn awful music, interspersed with various announcements, telling me, among other things, that the pharmacist has now almost qualified as a dispensing GP and is worth a visit instead of wasting my doctor's time. Or, some random female telling me that, after an hour, I'm still at least two days from speaking to a doctor and still 495 in the queue. Oh, and to add insult to injury, further adding, "Thank you for your patience. Please continue holding. Someone will be with you as soon as possible." Then, finally, being cut off as they have exceeded their quota for the day!

So, there you have it. My annual service, foiled not by a grumpy GP or a suspicious rash, but by the magnificent, Byzantine wonder that is the online NHS appointment system, closely followed by its equally frustrating telephonic counterpart. Perhaps it's a sign. Perhaps the universe is telling me to just embrace the impending kaput. After all, if I can't even book an appointment to discuss my potential demise, what's the point in delaying the inevitable?

And this, I suppose, brings me to the old adage: if it ain't broke, don't fix it. I have immense empathy for the NHS; it's a monumental institution, doing vital work under immense pressure, and its staff are nothing short of heroic. But the previous system for booking appointments? It worked admirably for one and all. It wasn't perfect, no system ever is, but it was functioning well, was genuinely popular with patients, and was far easier to use. That is, until some person with a 'know-it-all' attitude, and probably to keep themselves in employment, decided to come along and make changes for the sake of making changes. Now, like many others, I really cannot be bothered to use it. So, how does all this work in terms of patient care? When the very act of accessing care becomes an odyssey worthy of Homer, when patients are so exasperated they give up trying, that's when you know something has truly gone awry. It's not just an inconvenience; it's a barrier to the very care people need.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to slowly draw the curtains of my life. Let's just hope the rail doesn't fall off somewhere in the midst of doing so. Because knowing my luck, I'd probably need to book an emergency repair, and we all know how that would go. Don’t we?

PS. As a follow-up to this, you may wish to visit: https://www.bristolworld.com/health/worst-rated-surgeries-bristol-gp-patient-survey-5050213, where Charlotte Keel Medical Practice is listed as a somewhat ‘fabulous’ 49/70 in the annual GP Patient Survey.