Are You Sitting Comfortably? A Wobbly Tale of NHS Waiting Lists and Wishful Sleep
Snuggle in for Britain’s bumpiest bedtime story; where your gran, Derek from admin and a robot surgeon promise you sweet dreams… eventually!
Are you tucked in dear reader? Have you got a mug of something warm? Maybe a biscuit you swore you wouldn’t eat before bed but now feel is entirely justified because you’re about to hear a bedtime story so unbelievable it might keep you up until the milkman does his rounds. So pull that duvet a little tighter, because tonight’s tale is about the biggest game of NHS Jenga ever attempted… and yes before you ask, it’s wobblier than a jelly on a trampoline.
Once upon a not-so-fair time, there was a little island kingdom called Britain, famous for tea, polite queuing and an enduring national pastime; complaining about the NHS while desperately hoping it never leaves us. The wise and weary people of this land had over generations, built a health service so beloved it ranked somewhere between the Royal Family and a Sunday roast.
Now brace yourself for this bit. For the last few decades, each new government, red ties, blue ties, spotty ties; has fiddled with the NHS like a restless toddler poking holes in a sandcastle just to see what collapses first. Which brings us to tonight’s chapter. the Ten-Year Plan. Or as I prefer to call it, The Great NHS Reimagining That Changes Weekly.
Now gather closer. Picture the scene. Deep inside Whitehall, a crack team of policy wizards and think-tank elves were tasked with rewriting the NHS playbook. Their mission? Fix a waiting list longer than the line for cheap drinks at Wetherspoons on student night. They scribbled draft after draft. At first, a new version every month. Then every week. Then every two days. I half expect the final plan to be a Post-it note stuck to the back of a minister’s tie, fluttering in the breeze as he promises everything to everyone.
In this new enchanted vision, the NHS would become something called Neighbourhood Health Services; which sounds suspiciously like your gran popping next door with a bandage and a cup of tea when you fall off your bike. Hospitals, GPs, schools, local councils, even the bloke who fixes the photocopier will now join forces to keep you alive. It’s all pitched like a superhero blockbuster, except instead of caped crusaders flying in to save you, you’ve got Derek from admin wrestling the photocopier and a student nurse with an allergy surviving solely on lukewarm coffee and a sandwich from Pret A Manger.
One cunning plan is to scrap millions of “pointless” outpatient appointments. Yes, apparently half of the 135 million annual check-ups are as useful as a chocolate teapot. Instead, we’ll pop to Specsavers for glaucoma checks, or get our blood pressure read by the same Boots assistant who tries to sell you three-for-two shampoo.
Meanwhile, technology will swoop in like a glittery fairy godmother. The NHS app, which mostly lives in the corner of your phone next to the calculator you pretend to use for tax returns; will become your new “digital front door”. Need a doctor? Swipe here. Want to see your hospital notes? Tap there. Curious if you’re still alive? There’s probably a widget for that too.
Artificial intelligence will be sprinkled over everything like hundreds and thousands on a sad fairy cake. Fancy “ambient voice technology” will listen to you and your doctor chat about your dodgy knee and automatically type up your notes. Wearable gadgets will track your pulse and tell you off for eating too many biscuits after 9pm. Even surgical robots will get a funding boost, so if you’re lucky, your next operation will be performed by something that looks suspiciously like a fancy vacuum cleaner with a scalpel.
Meanwhile, the clever folk at the Treasury have promised an extra £10 billion for this techno-wizardry, which sounds generous until you realise the waiting list alone is 7.4 million and growing faster than my waistline after working at a French bakery for a week.
Of course, all this magic has a twist in the tale. The NHS itself, that mighty bureaucratic beast with more branches than a supermarket loyalty card scheme; is getting the chop. It will merge with the Department of Health, along with any other spin-offs that happen to be snoozing in the corner when the axe comes down. After all, if you want to make the NHS more efficient, why not chuck it in a bigger pot and stir vigorously with a wooden spoon marked “cost savings”?
But let me pause our tale here for a moment and peek behind the bedtime curtain. The real reason for all this tinkering isn’t because anyone found a golden key to unlock perfect health for all. It’s because Britain’s health service is eating money like a six-year-old let loose at a pick-and-mix counter. By the end of this decade, half of all public spending could go straight into the NHS’s bottomless purse. So something, or someone has to give. Or stop giving actually!
Now, as every good bedtime story needs a recurring line, here’s tonight’s. Are you feeling reassured yet? Go on, whisper it to yourself each time I mention a new policy. Are you feeling reassured yet?
Because my dear reader, while you sleep soundly tonight (or try to), a merry band of exhausted policy elves are redrafting yet another version of this Ten-Year Plan. Maybe this one will be the magic bullet that makes your GP pick up the phone before your next birthday. Or maybe it’ll be filed in the same drawer as all the other grand NHS masterplans; the one marked Good Intentions!
But don’t despair. If this saga has taught us anything, it’s that a truly British bedtime story never ends at bedtime. There’s always a sequel. Next time, our heroes will tackle whether your next prescription comes via an app, a drone, or your neighbour Doris armed with paracetamol and a flask of soup.
So tonight, snuggle under your duvet and drift off knowing that somewhere in a flickering office, someone is promising to fix the NHS once and for all; just as soon as they agree on which version of the plan they like best.
Sleep tight Britain. Dream of a world where you can see a specialist before you grow old enough to be one yourself. Dream of check-ups so local your cat could book them for you while sitting on your laptop keyboard. Dream of robots doing your knee surgery while Alexa plays your favourite playlist.
Because tomorrow when you wake up, there will be another plan, another promise, another bedtime story.
Are you feeling reassured yet?
Good night. Sleep well. Keep your phone charged; you’ll need it for the sequel.
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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