Nhs

Postwar Britain can be defined by a bargain made with its middle class: pay for public services but benefit from them too. Private education has always been the choice of a very small minority; private healthcare was reserved for the wealthiest and those whose employers paid for it. Middle England was content to send their children to the same schools as everyone else and use the same GPs, hospitals and dentists. This is no longer true. State spending continues to grow, yet large parts of the population now pay privately to supplement what their taxes have already provided.

The Society of Radiographers have said racism is rising in the NHS.  They give the example of a patient refusing a chest X-ray from a black radiographer, saying ‘black people frighten me.’ Other anecdotes cite patients calling healthcare staff ‘dirty foreigners’ or ‘monkeys’. The Society of Radiographers says the problems have got worse in the past 18 months. They blame ‘increasingly hostile public attitudes’, and single out ‘nationalist movements such as Operation Raise the Colours’. They offer no evidence for that. Their published findings are neither large enough nor systematic enough to establish a trend, but at first glance they chime with a recent survey that is: the NHS Staff Survey, sent annually to 1.5 million NHS staff.

The bishop hit us in the face. That was the best thing about confirmation. When I was 12, along with every other boy in the school, I was formally prepared for the sacrament that marked our passage from infancy to adulthood. Confirmation lacks the festive atmosphere of a bar mitzvah where families enjoy booze, dancing and speeches along with the exchange of gifts. For us, it was a cheerless affair held in the vast, under-heated parish church where 200 fidgety 12-year-olds waited to receive the appropriate blessing from the bishop. He was called Cyril. We were familiar with his name from Sunday Mass when he was cited as an appropriate subject for our orations. ‘We remember our Bishop Cyril in our prayers,’ said the priest.

An irresponsible drama Sir: Britain is faced with a fabricated panic which has prioritised personality over policy. Keir Starmer has been forced out of office largely to provide the media with a piece of theatre, a drama of great irresponsibility in which Act One has been written but nothing sketched out beyond it. Michael Gove’s brilliant account (‘Butterfly effect’, 20 June) has shown that Britain’s economy has benefited greatly from our detachment from the EU, but points to an area where the misnomer of ‘Exit’ has magnified problems of national identity, which remain and require what amounts to therapy on a grand scale.

Edward Gibbon was troubled by a swelling in his lower abdomen. I have the same condition. ‘Wow. That’s huge,’ said my GP as he gazed at the affected area. ‘Huge?’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I wouldn’t know. It’s the only one I’ve ever seen.’ My cyst has been expanding steadily for decades and I was told a few years ago that its intentions were peaceful. My new GP was trying to scare me, obviously. I don’t blame him. It’s dull work staring at sick bodies all day and he was trying to amuse himself with a spot of scaremongering. ‘You’ll need a scan within two weeks,’ he added. ‘Cancerous perhaps?’ I asked. He nodded with a sly grin.

Chelsea and her partner had been trying for a baby for two years. Following several miscarriages, she became pregnant again last spring. ‘We were overjoyed,’ the 26-year-old says. ‘We thought this time everything would finally be different.’ Joy rapidly turned to worry when Chelsea began to suffer headaches and visual disturbances and made several trips to Worthing Hospital, part of University Hospitals Sussex NHS Foundation Trust. Eventually, foetal distress was picked up during a scan; after a transfer to another hospital and an emergency Caesarean, Bonnie was born in September at just over 26 weeks’ gestation. She had suffered a brain bleed and had chronic lung disease. ‘I knew something wasn’t right,’ Chelsea says.

Regular readers of this column will be familiar with my promoting an idea called a ‘Paceometer’ (pictured). Rather than presenting speed in, say, miles per hour (distance/time), it presents speed the other way round, in minutes per ten miles (time/distance). Created by the cognitive scientists Eyal Peer and Eyal Gamliel, the Paceometer shows something which is mathematically trivial but completely non-intuitive. Quite simply, the faster you are going already, the less time you save by going 10mph faster still. Accelerate from 20-30mph and you save ten minutes on a ten-mile journey. Accelerate from 70-80mph and you save just over a minute.

Here’s a mark of our times. A dietician who apparently ‘bluffed’ her way into a top NHS job has been sacked for knowing less about the body and medicine in general than a reasonably well-trained spaniel. The woman claimed great experience in working with nutrition based diseases and even cancer – but colleagues soon discovered she could not identify a feeding tube, did not know what or where the large intestine was, had seemingly never heard of a gall bladder and believed radiology was used to treat heart disease. According to colleagues she lacked even basic knowledge of anatomy. She was struck off the register and Manchester University NHS Foundation Trust said it was reviewing its recruitment procedures. Quite right, too.

After a week in Coventry dealing with two parents with dementia, it would have felt like a nice spa break to go to Guantanamo Bay. The smallest cell at Gitmo and a pair of sensory deprivation earmuffs would have been sheer bliss. I got back from not picking up my father’s car from the garage and my mother was standing in the doorway crying. In the time it had taken me to drive three times the distance to the MOT test centre in a circle of unfathomable six-lane 30mph Midlands bypasses, because that was the way my father wanted to go, the garage had shut and his car was locked up on the street outside. I was rocking backwards and forwards slightly in the car seat making a humming sound as my father stood arguing with the closed shutters.

Last summer, the Labour MP Tonia Antoniazzi introduced a clause to the Crime and Policing Bill that will decriminalise all abortions. Enshrining this ‘right’ into law will mean that a mother could end the life of a baby a week, a day or even an hour before it is due to be born, without facing legal consequences. The bill will go to the House of Lords this month. If there had been proper debate over the proposal, rather than introducing it alongside 1,482 other amendments, parliamentarians might have spotted the flaw: the proposed legislation will enable sex-selective abortions. The NHS normally delays the point at which parents are entitled to know their child’s sex until the 20-week scan, shortly before abortion currently becomes illegal.

Erasmus in England The government is to rejoin the Erasmus scheme, which allows students at British universities to spend time studying in other European countries, with reciprocal opportunities for EU students. How did Desiderius Erasmus’s own studies in England go? — In 1499 he spent two months at St Mary’s College, Oxford, where he attended John Colet’s Bible classes and also learned skills in horsemanship. His trip ended in financial disaster, however, when customs officials confiscated his gold and silver while he was leaving England. — From 1511 to 1515 Erasmus was a Professor of Divinity at Cambridge, where he studied and taught Greek. But he was far from happy with his accommodation at Queens’ College, which he complained was cold and draughty.

Too much information. That’s what you’re about to get. I wouldn’t read another line if I were you. I will be talking, at length, about my prostate and, by extension, my old fella and why I will not let the medical clergy anywhere near either of them, not the private medics or the chaotic maniacs who work for the NHS. I don’t mind whipping it out for you, though – and so this is an article which is both repulsive in its personal revelatory details and will also, if anyone takes it seriously, result in 230 premature deaths over the next decade or something. I don’t think it’s going to get me on the shortlist for the Orwell prize, then. But telling unpopular truths hasn’t worked very well either, so never mind.

Time was, you didn’t look forward to going to the dentist. Even for routine stuff, your highest aspiration would be to get it over as quickly as possible with as little unpleasantness as possible. Most of the procedures seem pretty mechanical, including having the most sensitive bits of your teeth scraped with a metal thing. That was what I thought before I encountered Anti-Ageing Dentistry at the Nejati clinic in Belgravia, where the founder – it seems wrong to call Brandon Nejati a mere dentist – talks about ‘pampering’. This is where a really expensive luxury spa meets dentistry and it’s the most obvious example of how oral care is changing.