Health

Safari log: 3.56 p.m. and the Land Rover is parked up on the savannah. Inside, we wear dark glasses and muted clothes. Minutes pass and we still can’t spot the animal we have come to see. We are told that she only comes out at certain times of day, that she is shy. No, we’re not actually in Africa; we’re in a prep school car park in the Home Counties, on what is known as an Ozempic safari. We have gathered to spot the ‘Mounjaro Mummies’ prowling around after the summer holidays. It’s wild, in all senses. It’s also socially and morally dubious. Word on the street is that the number of Mounjaro Mummies has swelled after the two-month break, their transformations taking place away from the daily scrutiny of the school run.

I’m feeling quite smug at the moment. Every year I vow to get in shape in the summer, which means losing weight, drinking less and going to the gym. The summer bit is because there’s a risk I’ll be seen in a swimming costume – I want a ‘beach-ready body’ – and there’s also the exposure that comes from wearing fewer clothes when the sun’s out and the weather’s warm. Anyway, this summer I managed it. I’ve lost about a stone, am down to about half a bottle of wine a day, and have started working out again after an eight-year hiatus. I might hesitate to strut about at the local lido in budgie smugglers, but the dad bod has gone.

I am entombed, like Edgar Allan Poe’s prematurely buried man, listening through headphones to a contemporary Russian fugue for organ and bagpipes. I had asked for a soothing Schubert prelude, but the radiologist couldn’t lay hands on one. The headphones have no volume control I can locate – only on and off, and off will expose me to the diabolic clang of magnetic resonance. Hell will be an eternity inside an MRI machine, praying for deafness. There is a little sponge ball I can press if I can take it no longer. I give it 17 minutes, then press. Shame overwhelms me. I overhear the radiologists whisper: ‘So it works then.’ Which means that in the time they’ve had this machine I am the first person to beg to be released.

‘You need a Wwoofer,’ said the guest as he luxuriated in the big armchair by the roaring fire in our sitting room. We looked at him blankly for a moment before I replied: ‘We have a woofer. Two woofers.’ And I nodded to the spaniels lying at our feet. ‘No, I’m talking about the Wwoof scheme,’ he said, a hint of his Welsh accent showing through. ‘World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms. A Wwoofer is someone who comes to work for you for nothing in return for learning about organic principles.’ The big old house on the hill seduces them with her Georgian charm.

The guest who thought our farm was in the town centre was very cross indeed. She got out of her car by the old fountain and stood hands on hips surveying the meadows sloping from the big old house towards the rugged mountains beyond. She was wearing knee-length khaki safari shorts, so you’d have thought she’d be pleased to pitch up in the middle of nowhere. But she looked askance at the rolling hills and affected to be shocked by the reality of what was clearly pictured and described on the booking site. She asked how she and her husband were supposed to walk to their drinks party in town that evening. Could they walk there? Not really, I said. Not unless the party was tomorrow evening and they had good hiking boots. ‘Taxi?’ she asked. So we had to explain.

Labour swept to power on a pledge to ‘save the NHS’. As shadow health secretary, Wes Streeting said he would go ‘further than New Labour ever did’ to clear the health service’s backlog and, to achieve this, he claimed old taboos would be torn up, including the use of the private sector to improve services. Failure to clear the backlog now will be hugely politically consequential for this government. Partly because of how important the NHS is to the voting public, but more so because of the emotional resonance the service and its ‘free-at-the-point-of-use’ model has for Labour, both its MPs and its supporters. If the party that founded the NHS cannot save it, who can? That is why the NHS has been mostly immune to Rachel Reeves’s new austerity.