Space Invaders

New jobs are always a bit hit and miss until you get your claws under the table and establish who-does-what-to-whom in the game of ward politics. In fact Job 2.1 has turned out to be a complex puzzle of roles depending on the day of the week, the ward number, who’s in charge of the nurses and how many consultants require their brows mopping.  And like Kryton in Red Dwarf, I wish I had a spare head; one I could slot into place at the end of each day as a reminder of what passes as ‘normal’ in this mad house.

Don’t get me wrong, I know my place and as ‘bank staff’ I’m languishing at the bum end of the pecking order and up against time-served, partly-institutionalised individuals who are determined despite the turn of the 21^st century, to carry on doing everything in the same way it’s always been done.  I’m uber cool with this from a clinical perspective but for a territorial raven like me, the lack of my own desk space makes me want to pull my tail feathers out.

It’s like this – each ward has a nurses’ office with a PC, mainly for the use of the senior nurses or else. Outside of these offices are erected a U-shaped ward clerk’s desk which is home to another PC where appointments are made, lists are compiled and emails are ignored.  But this desk is also the focal point for everyone who wants to discuss everything over the clerk’s head, in a loud voice, as they did with me on Saturday morning.  Minding my own business, I spied a man standing in my desk space and mistaking him for a lost visitor I chirped,
“Hi.  Who have you come to see this morning?”  Insert big smile here - yet his response was unexpectedly rude.
“I’m not a visitor, I’m a Consultant.”  Said in an emphatic tone indicating his ability to remove my spleen without anaesthetic.  “And I want to know how many spaces there are in my clinic on Monday?”  This had me stumped.
“Well I’d love to tell you but I don’t know who you are.  Sorry.”  Only in the NHS do they wear ID tags and I was expected to know this bloke’s name.  Unhappily, I’d encountered him before on a rare Sunday shift guarding the front door and even then he refused to identify himself.
“I’ve just told you I’m a CONSULTANT with patients on this ward – you should know who I am.”  With seven different surgeons arriving before 8.30am, what was I supposed to do on Jane Austen’s 200^th anniversary, get Mr Darcy to introduce us formally?  I wanted to pull this bloke’s plug.
“Listen mate, I know what you are but I now dislike you so much, I don’t care who you are …”  when the Terrifying Sister emerged from her office and greeted him by name. 

Problem solved, except they now occupied my available desk space and were discussing patients, so I had to shrink myself to a sliver and duck under his armpit to get access to my own PC. Forget sitting down, they’d got the chairs and I was in a lose-lose situation – do I elbow him or her out of the way or stand around looking daft until one of them moves?  I went to make tea instead.

Happily, an emergency took them in different directions and I relaxed enough to clear the pile of detritus left by the nurses.  Okay, medical records have to be filed but I’ve got a tidy mind.  Back in the 1990’s when the whole ‘paperless office’ scenario was devised and a clear desk policy seemed like an achievable nirvana, I’d had my fantasy reinforced by a French & Saunders corporate video called The Paper Chase about the benefits of ‘only touching a piece of paper once.’  It works brilliantly but the paper invading my space comes attached to other stuff, which needs to be Mr Sheen’d regularly or you could stick your head to it.  And it happens every single shift – I sit down, clear some space, do a bit of work and get called away.  When I get back from Pharmacy, Pathology or Taxidermy, another pile of 5hite’s arrived and I have to deal with it.  If things don’t improve, I’m going to need a Psychiatrist or an enormous shredder.  Better still, I’d love my own workspace [measuring at least 11 cubic metres to comply with government legislation] large enough for a bit of a flap.

Tip of the Blog:  To entertain myself this week, I’ve adopted the clipped-consonant speaking style of Matthew McFadyen in Ripper Street.  His diction is so beautiful, I’ve forgiven him for the awful US ending of Pride & Prejudice.  And if he called me on the wards, I’ll be minding my P’s and Q’s and pronouncing my T’s correc[t]ly.

Raven

 

Polar Bear Box

Surrounded by health care professionals these recent months, I’m amazed by their total lack of compassion for a head cold, and certainly they have no time for self pity or ‘milking it’ to get extra biscuits from the treats box.

“Stick Vick on it” barked a specialist nursing sister. “Give your chest a good rub.”

And so I found myself rooting around in the medicine cupboard of our Orwellian kitchen for a familiar tub of medicinal grease.  Unfortunately, once I’d scraped the dust off the packaging, I spied the sell by date as 1995 and headed off to Boots.  It worked a treat and by Twelfth Night I’d recovered my strength, feeling well enough to engage in boxing up the trimmings and to entertain myself with my battery-powered TARDIS biscuit barrel.

Deconstructing from the top, I started with the baubles and after a quick flick with a feather duster [chicken not raven], I nestled their ancient glass ornaments back into the box.  With a wry smile, I imagined myself as a Dress Size 8 again, back in the 1980s when I acquired three miniature Santas from Habitat; they’re sturdy little fellas and will probably outlive the two white bookcases and director’s chair acquired at the same time.  Now they share space with three fuchsia angels from Tesco, and a padded house made out of Dr Who’s jacket.

You’d also be right to assume our tree is black but that’s so wrong on every level; it’s green.  Laughingly described as a ‘Swiss Fir’ on the box, the people who manufactured it had only ever seen pictures of conifers and to give it a touch of authenticity this year I’ve been burning a Yankie Spiced Xmas Wreath & Poisoned Apple scented candle, guaranteed to repel all wildlife for a good 10 metres in all directions.  As I dumped the waxy remains, a vague memory surfaced from the 1960s of when Mum let me clip real candles in holders to the tree but never let actually light them.  Wonder why?

My ancient fairy lights were down to 50% of their twinkle capacity and merely strangled the tree rather than illuminating it, so had to be disposed of along with the box of tricks and pulsating light show which gave Alphonse a headache if he stared at them long enough.  And finally, the last trinket in the box is always the Holographic Drum – a stark reminder that it’s my birthday soon and maybe this year I will have those drumming lessons I’ve been promising myself since having a crush on Stewart Copeland of The Police … remember them? You never know, if Plan A fails, I can always accompany Alphonse outside M&S for a bit of pocket money because it may be the only way to afford a new settee.

Other than to replace the awful sofa we have at the moment, there’s one resolution this year.  I had choices of course:

Be a better raven?  Difficult.

Spend less, save more perhaps?  Even more difficult.

Find a fragrance that doesn’t smell like a swamp?  Sorted – YSL Parisienne.

Run a marathon?  Not with my knees.

Winner by a mile and my resolution for 2013

“MAKE THIS YEAR COUNT FOR SOMETHING.”  I’ll keep you posted on progress.

Tip of the Blog:  Have you seen the BBC2 documentary about polar bears this week?  Some devious producer had locked Gordon Buchannan into a fortified glass/steel box while an 8ft female bear attempted to break in and eat him?  Frankly, I was cheering for the bear hoping she would get her teeth into somewhere tender because he spends more time on camera than any of his subjects, and it’s 8loody irritating.  Thankfully, the real stars of the show were Lyra’s two snoring cubs; perhaps they needed a bit of Vicks Vapour Rub to clear their little noses … ahhh.

Raven

Cocktails

Yes, I'm still here after the rigours of the festive season, writing away on my grand opus and making absolutely no progress on the ePublishing front.  Just as the rockets were exploding around the nest, I caught a sniffle and have been gifted with a stinking head cold thus causing my brain to be filled with cotton wool.  Short as this blog post may be, I feel a sense of impending happiness gazing forward to February 10th when we kick the Year of the Black Water Dragon out and replace it with the Year of the Black Snake.  Should fit in well with all the black stuff around, shouldn't I?

Tip of the Blog:  Do take it easy during the hybernation month of January won't you?  I'll be on Lemsip and Glenlivet cocktails, perhaps with a touch of ginger liqueur.  Cheers.

Raven