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 21st 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 200th 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
So good it's rude to comment on it!
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