Curing the NHS

Recently I’ve been looking at the NHS as an outsider and a user. This has led me to think about the organisation, it’s shortcomings and whether anything really can be done to improve it.

The Health Service is something that we all want, and for which we all pay taxes. So we expect that when we need it not only will it be there, free at the point of use, but we will get the best possible treatment, speedily, in a good environment, from professional people and a professional organisation.

Sadly one or more of those elements are nearly always lacking, often conspiring to make patient care less than optimal.

Don’t get me wrong. Many parts of the health service are excellent. And in an emergency they generally work brilliantly, at least in the short-term.

Recently Noreen and I attended a Patient Participation Group which our GP practice has started. Everyone there was self-selected and had volunteered; they were not “yes men” hand-picked by the practice. And everyone there had nothing but praise for our excellent GPs, nurses and admin/reception staff — indeed we found it quite difficult to come up with anything major we thought they needed to improve. The only significant thing we homed in on for improvement was some of communicating with the body of patients as a whole. But our doctors are lucky; they have excellent staff throughout the practice and new-ish purpose-built accommodation. Nevertheless they are now short of space to do all the things they want to do.

Many parts of the Health Service are not so lucky. Visit the average NHS hospital and you’ll find a run-down building containing a large number of staff many of whom (especially at the lower levels) appear poorly paid, poorly trained, poorly managed and demotivated, giving off an air of being oppressed and disinterested. One suspects there may also be bullying by both management and unions. They seem ground down and struggling to do a good job against a background of inefficiency, waste and the awfulness of the people (mostly patients!) they have to deal with.

And that’s a two way thing. Staff (and an organisation) that don’t care about patients encourage patients to not care about how they treat the staff.

This has to lead to an attitude of unprofessionalism. As an example I am continually horrified by the awfulness of the communications I receive from all parts of the NHS. They are written in poor English (GOK what their Gujarati translations are like!); poorly typed; poorly designed; poorly printed. One recent letter I received was offset such that the right hand edge of the text was missing, it was faintly printed, poorly worded and covered in printed-on splodges of toner. It looked slapdash and unprofessional; the work of a not very careful 10-year-old. Frankly I would have been ashamed to even put it in my rubbish bin, let alone send it to anyone. And yet this was an important communication.

Go to a private hospital and you generally find exactly the opposite of all this: personable, helpful, interested, caring and motivated staff at all levels and good communication.

Why does the NHS have to be this way?

The simple answer is that it doesn’t.

Whilst bringing the whole of the NHS up to the standards of the best private hospitals may be neither achievable nor affordable, it should be possible to achieve a 500% improvement. (And this doesn’t mean US-style healthcare where one has to pay for everything or go without.) It won’t be easy; but if there’s a will I believe it could be done. In broad terms this is how I see it being done …

  • The NHS always maintains it is short of money. It isn’t; it has shedloads of money to do everything it should (and we want it to) sensibly do. But …
  • It also has too many meaningless, politically imposed, targets.
  • In consequence there are also far too many managers.
  • It probably also has too many (non-productive) admin staff. There always seem to be lots of people walking about carry pieces of paper but apparently doing little else. I’m not saying they are all unnecessary, but does anyone really know?
  • On top of this there appears to be an especially corrosive and pervasive culture; a culture of mistrust and of doing the minimum necessary; a culture which generates unprofessionalism and a couldn’t-care-less attitude.

So what can/should we do about it?

  • Well first of all there has to be a real will to do something and act sensibly, not just out of short-term political expediency or protecting one’s backside.
  • Then the budget has to be maintained at least at current levels, in real terms.
  • In doing that there has to be a vast improvement in cost control (yes, drug spend does need to be monitored, but hopefully not rationed), which means good stock control and the reduction of waste.
  • Scrap all but the most essential of targets and have what targets there are set by the clinicians for it is they who really understand what the patient needs. One target which must remain is to ensure the service is the same across the whole country; there must be no postcode lottery.
  • That should mean a reduction in the number of managers required, which will free large sums of otherwise non-productive money for patient care.
  • Then we need to look very critically at the number of non-clinical, non-managerial staff required. Reductions, where sensible, should be achievable by streamlining much of the (still largely paper-based) admin. That doesn’t mean an all-singing-all-dancing ginormous IT system; it means a large dose of analysing what really happens, what needs to happen and lots of common sense.
  • Much of all of this can be achieved by empowering all NHS staff to make the right decisions for the patients (both individually and collectively), empowering the staff to help improve their environment (why shouldn’t they repaint a wall or fix a door handle? — they’d do it at home!) and take pride in what they do.
  • All of this will only happen with a major change in culture to one which cherishes and values both the employees and the patients; a culture in which the staff treat the patients (and each other) as they would wish to be treated themselves. That has to start at the top: the top of each hospital/practice and the top of the NHS, ie. with the politicians and Civil Servants. Lip service won’t do; management have to demonstrate that they mean what they say. It also needs the staff — and the unions — to engage with, and believe in, the process and have an element of trust in it.

None of this will be easy. I’ve worked in an organisation where it has been done. It is difficult, painful and takes time. It needs a determination from everyone to make it work. Heads will have to be banged together. It almost certainly means shedding staff: if nothing else the non-believers have to be encouraged to change or move elsewhere — for their good and that of the organisation. It needs good, no-nonsense, management at the top; management with a long-term vision, a determination to make the right things happen and the charisma/skills to be able to fully engage with their staff at all levels. It also needs the unions to be willing to embrace the change (or be sidelined).

What is not needed is what we currently have: short-termism, poor management, bullying and continual change driven b
y political expediency.

Someone has to get a grip. Sadly I don’t see who that someone is.

Listography: Mugs

How do you view your coffee (or in my case, tea) mug? As something boring and utilitarian? Or as something joyful and artistic?

In essence that’s the question Kate is asking this week in her Listography. She wants to see five of our favourite mugs.

Well you’ll be glad to know I’m not going to show you five of mine. I’ll show you one, because I tend to the view that the coffee mug is something utilitarian and generally boring.

As far as I’m concerned a mug has to fulfil just a few simple criteria: it must be dishwasher proof, fairly straight-sided (I can’t abide flared or fancy shapes), with no daft slogans or girlie pictures, made of pottery (unless for the consumption of alcohol when glass is de rigueur). Most importantly they must hold a pint of liquid.

Yes, I drink everything by the pint. I can’t be doing with silly little cups that hold half a mouthful.

So here is the tea mug I’m drinking from while writing this …

John Leach Mug

This one was made by John Leach at Muchelney, Somerset. I have two or three of these mugs (which hold about a pint) and we also have a selection of other Leach kitchenware pots, all of which are used. I do love John Leach pottery which is fired in a Japanese-style wood burning kiln to give it those wonderful colours and a rough finish. It is wonderful stuff to look at and to use; it is about my only concession to the arty in mugs — well in china at all, really. And no wonder. John Leach is the eldest grandson of master potter Bernard Leach, and son of David Leach. So pottery is in his blood; it has been his life’s work and passion.

If you’re anywhere near Somerset, do go to John Leach’s pottery at Muchelney where they have a shop and a small art gallery. You might well meet the potters too. And while there make sure to visit Muchelney church to see the wonderful décolleté angels on the ceiling.

[Hint: Take your satnav. Muchelney is one of those places that is impossible to find. I think we’ve got lost every time we’ve been there!]

Apart from these by John Leach my other tea/coffee mugs are all plain boring pottery. And you all know what a plain boring pottery mug looks like.

Reasons to be Grateful: 13

Experiment, week 13. This week’s five things which have made me happy or for which I’m grateful.

  1. Green Woodpecker. I’ve always been one for watching the birds — both feathered and primate varieties. One of the feathered type which I’ve always liked but seldom seen is the Green Woodpecker, colloquially know as a Yaffle from its laughing call. I’m lucky as I now see them irregularly but several times a year going through the garden. We had one hunting for food in the snow earlier this week. They’re extremely handsome.
  2. Fresh Snow. I don’t know why, but there is always something slightly romantic about seeing snow fall and fresh, virgin snow on the ground.
  3. Baked Ham. I love home cooked, succulent ham. However I tend to avoid buying gammon joints as these days I consider gammon lacks flavour and has always been over-priced. When I can get one I buy a smoked collar joint. Collar as a cut is greatly under-rated. Collar rashers are larger and for my money much better value than the ubiquitous back bacon. Even better, if you can get it, is a large collar joint; it makes an excellent ham. (Waitrose normally have collar joints but they are mostly too small; you really need one about 1.5 Kilos — that’s the size they should be if the pig has been grown fully.) Noreen has a great way of cooking it in a plain flour and water (huff) pastry case which you discard afterwards. Eaten hot with roast or jacket potatoes, veg of choice and parsley or mushroom sauce it is great comfort food. Or eat it cold with salad, or mash and pickles, or between bread.
  4. Redwings (right) and Fieldfares (below right). These two birds are both members of the thrush family which we don’t see regularly in gardens in the UK. They are birds of open countryside where they gather in mixed flocks. They are winter visitors to the UK and only come to gardens in the hardest of weather. So we’ve had a few around over the last few days and this morning there was a mixed band of at least 60 birds sitting in our silver birch trees. Lovely to see.
  5. Fish & Chips. Yesterday we had the quarterly Anthony Powell Society London pub meet at the Audley in Mayfair. This is always a convivial and informal occasion where we enjoy good beer, good pub food, good company and interesting chat. I try not to eat much fish unless I know it is farmed or sustainably caught, but the Audley’s fish and chips is an exception: it is always good and a popular choice amongst the regulars at the pub meet. More comfort food!

Where do they get it all?

As regular readers will know I always keep an eye on the catalogue produced by our local auction house (who naturally also do house clearance). Over the years they have produced some corkers by way of inappropriate or ambiguous descriptions, strange things and odd combinations of “miscellaneous toot” into a single lot. It’s not always the strangeness of what they sell but the perversity of the combinations which amuse me. One wonders who buys the stuff.

But they must have been reading here because since I’ve been writing about these oddities their descriptions have improved greatly in quality. Maybe they’re just going up-market. So the catalogue for their upcoming sale ha produced fewer amusements than usual. However there are a few …

A World War II leather flying helmet, marked Frank Bryan Ltd 1939, a German military wristwatch — Urofa 58 668903, and a German dagger with stag horn handle in leather scabbard.

A tin containing old clay pipes.

Two bowler hats, a quantity of Royal Worcester Evesham, Sylvac Fauna jug, Wellington china tableware, yellow, black decoration, two metal figurines on marble base; Homepride flour man, Villeroy & Boch ware, egg coddlers, etc.

A pair of antlers, two pairs of binoculars, convex mirror with gesso frame, carved box, fur coat and stole, metal mesh handbag, framed map, silver plate items including teapot, serving spoons, ladles, etc.

A tribal animal skin shield, two clubs and a spear.

A large carved wood tribal mask with bone inlay, and a metal cow bell.

A large brass eagle.

A percussion cap musket, 18th/19th century.

A reproduction Black Forest cuckoo clock, in elaborate carved wood case with revolving figures, three train movement.

A German rare porcelain satirical Suffragette tobacco jar with cover, modelled as a passionate female head and inscribed ‘I say Down with the Trousers’

A Clarice Cliff Bizarre plate …

A Baxter print of a portrait of Nelson in period mahogany frame

A foldable bike, trailer and stroller in one, apparently unused, a wine rack and two Samsonite suitcases.

A Crimplene drop waist dress, other ladies’ clothes, three pairs of boots, Sinclair miniature tv, perfumes, etc.

A charming mink shoulder shrug …

A silk Victorian mourning dress and poke bonnet, consisting of cape/jacket, laced bustle, waistcoat, lace mob cap and silk material remnant.

Four cartons including old hats, metal figures, Steins, marble table lamps, an early German medical box, dressing table items, barometer, carved figure of an immortal, old beer pumps, old newspapers, horse figures, a lead bear, cigarette lighter missing strike, a carved water buffalo, storks, a crumb brush, whisky water jug, convex mirror, etc.

Having said that they do also have some rather nice things. The upcoming sale has a large number of lots of what looks like rather good antique silverware.

Word: Bromide

Bromide is interesting in that it has both scientific and non-scientific meanings, although the non-scientific are derived from the scientific.

Bromide.

  1. An anion of the element bromine, element 35. Several metal bromides (most commonly potassium bromide) are used medicinally as sedatives.
  2. A reproduction or proof on bromide paper; a bromide print, or the developer used to create such.
  3. A commonplace saying, trite remark, conventionalism; a soothing statement which has little purpose except to make you feel better; eg. “take things a day at a time”, or “go with the flow”.

[The element bromine (shown above) is nasty stuff. It is just about liquid at room temperature and evaporates easily as a brown vapour. It smells like chlorine (think swimming pools and loo cleaner) only worse as like this you get it in a higher concentration. I had to work with it in my undergraduate research project. I assure you it is not nice; you always use a fume hood. Happy days.]

Wise Words?

A selection of recently culled amusing words from the wise and wise words from the amusing.

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.
[Steve Jobs]

I am not lazy … I just rest before I get tired.
[Thoughts of Angel]

Have compassion for everyone you meet, even if they don’t want it. What seems conceit, bad manners, or cynicism is always a sign of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen. You do not know what wars are going on down there where the spirit meets the bone.
[Miller Williams, The Ways We Touch]

Everything will be OK in the end … if its not OK, its not the end.
[Thoughts of Angel]

There were two parrots sat in a tree

We awoke again the morning to a scattering of snow making the trees look pretty. Then I spotted these two Ring-neck Parakeets sitting in our apple tree.

There were two parrots sat in a tree

Needless to say Ring-Neck Parakeets aren’t native to this country. Originally they come from the Himalayan foothills of India so they are quite unperturbed by the snow and the cold.

They appear to have originated as escapees some time in the 1950s or early 1960s (there are several urban myths as to how this happened). Now there are several large colonies around London and they’re gradually spreading — mainly because they have few natural predators here except Sparrowhawks.

There is a large roost (I’m told 2500 birds!) just a handful of miles from us at Wormwood Scrubs which is where our birds seem to belong as we regularly see them and others flying off in that direction at dusk.

We have a pair (sometimes more) around our garden several times most days. Whether they are always the same birds I don’t know, although I suspect pairs/small groups may well have defined feeding territories so I could be seeing the same birds regularly. They’re colourful, comical and acrobatic birds which makes them fun to watch.

They’re always chattering and calling to each other, especially in flight. And they don’t half get through the bird seed!

Their bodies are noticeably bigger than a Blackbird but much smaller than a Magpie. And they have those superb long green tails, which make them quite distinctive in flight. As one would expect from their size they definitely rule the seed feeders. One Parakeet will defer to a Magpie, although it isn’t normally scared right away, it just stands aside. But two Parakeets will stand their ground against a Magpie.

I know many people think that, because they are invaders, they should be culled. I don’t agree. I think they are a delightful, colourful and exotic addition to London.

As well as the usual selection of birds, this morning I’ve also had small numbers of Redwing and Fieldfare in the garden. It must be cold!

I doubt the mean that …

Seen today on a tub of MYCIL Foot Powder:

Possible side effects:
If anything unusual happens, stop using the product and talk to your doctor or pharmacist.

Anything? Are they really interested in my cat catching a parrot in the snow with a butterfly net?

Blue Poodles

Book titles can be an endless source of fascination. What makes a good title? When does an amusing title work and when does it just become droll. Why do publishers change your amusing or off the wall working title into something more descriptive but boring? Isn’t Blue Poodles a much better title than The Semiotic Use of Color in Californian Dog Parlours?

But one always wonders how many of the odd titles one comes across are real and how many are accidental. Do publishers and authors really have no sense of the ridiculous? Or are they actually out to lunch?

Grubbing around in the intertubes the other day, the way one does, I found that Horace Bent, the pseudonymous diarist of The Bookseller magazine, has been collecting, and awarding an annual prize for, the oddest book titles.

While not all appeal to my strangely warped sense of the ridiculous, many are brilliant. The list includes:

  • Managing a Dental Practice: The Genghis Khan Way
  • Baboon Metaphysics
  • Strip and Knit with Style
  • The Industrial Vagina
  • The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification
  • Tattoed [sic] Mountain Women and Spoon Boxes of Daghestan: Magic Medicine Symbols in Silk, Stone, Wood and Flesh
  • Bombproof Your Horse
  • Living with Crazy Buttocks
  • First You Take a Leek
  • Whose Bottom? A Lift-the-Flap Book
  • Guide to Eskimo Rolling
  • American Bottom Archaeology
  • Oral Sadism and the Vegetarian Personality
  • Optical Chick Sexing
  • Penetrating Wagner’s Ring
  • Waterproofing Your Child

You can find the full list here.

Grandma Marshall

This week’s theme over at The Gallery is A Family Story. As Tara says

This week I want you to dig back into your archives — be that last week, last year or the last century — and tell me a story. You know those quirky little stories you pass on from generation to generation? Every picture tells a little story, but some tell a really special one. I want to see THAT photo.

So … This is an oil painting of my father’s mother done by my mother, probably in the early 1960s. I photographed the painting a couple of years ago.

Grandma Marshall

It is a scarily accurate representation. Yes, she was as miserable as she looks; I never recall her being in the least bit fun — but that’s what strict Baptism and being left by your husband for a young floozy during WWII does for you, I guess. (Somewhere I have three illegitimate half-aunts by my grandfather.) Only now am I beginning to understand some of what happened and the ramifications — but that’s not itself the point of the story.

My grandmother died in 1973. I had no contact with her, or my father’s brother and sister, after the mid-60s (when I would have been in my mid-teens). My father more or less disowned his sister when she married her (widowed) cousin (she knew she could never have children so that wasn’t a consideration).

My grandmother’s death brought about the final rift between my father and his family. My father understood that his brother and sister were accusing him of only being after his mother’s money (there wasn’t any!) when he was asking questions merely because he was his mother’s executor. He stood down as my grandmother’s executor and a rift was created. A rift which was never healed.

I missed my aunt. She and I had always got on well and she took a keen interest in how well I was doing. To be honest I didn’t miss my grandmother or my uncle, but then I saw little of them anyway. I knew I dared not re-make contact while my father was alive as that would only make matters worse.

When my father died in 2006, at the age of 86, I figured that if they were still alive his brother and sister (both younger than my father) deserved the courtesy of knowing. I had to do some research; I knew only my aunt’s and my uncle’s approximate addresses from my teenage years. Where were they now? Were they even alive? I thought my aunt probably wasn’t — a gut feeling which turned out to be wrong; it was my uncle’s wife and their eldest son who had died.

I found addresses; I hoped they were correct. I wrote them both a short letter with a Christmas card. In it I said that I hoped they would excuse my intrusion, that I thought they should know what had happened and an invited them, if they chose, to get in touch otherwise I would remain silent. The most I expected was a return Christmas card with a polite note. But within 24 hours I had both my aunt and uncle on the phone. They were delighted to remake contact. So after a gap of well over 40 years I met up with both of them, and my cousins plus some of their children.

As a result of healing the rift I have learnt a lot more about my family, and especially the circumstances surrounding all the angst. There was, of course, far more than met my teenage eyes. I am in the process of putting together all my aunt’s and my father’s papers. I can now see why my grandmother, my grandfather, my father and his siblings were as they were/are — and some of the joins that weren’t made thus causing the rift. Luckily my aunt decided at a young age to rise above it, and did so. She became a very senior nurse and declined more than one appointment as a Matron. Despite my father I too have mostly managed to rise above the negativity although somewhat later in life.

As to the painting, Noreen and I discovered it amongst my mother’s art work when we were clearing out her bungalow after she moved into a care home a couple of years ago. (My mother is now 96 and still drawing and painting!) Knowing my aunt (the youngest child) was close to her mother, I sent her this photograph of the painting.

In June 2010 I was invited to my aunt’s 80th birthday party. Not knowing what on earth to buy her I thought she should have the painting. Luckily my mother agreed. We had it framed. You cannot imagine how delighted she was! Here she is, looking unnaturally solemn, after being presented with the painting.

Jessie with Portrait of her Mother