Oh, it’s definitely not just me, right? The world has gone stark raving bonkers… and nowhere is this more apparent than in the hallowed Victorian walls of my local NHS health centre. You know, the place I finally managed to get an appointment with after waiting approximately the same length of time it takes for a glacier to shift.
So after weeks of online form-filling, hold-music symphonies, and refreshing the “Appointments Available” page like it was the Glastonbury ticket site, I finally got to see someone. And no, before you ask, they didn’t actually do what I wanted them to do. Because why would they? That would be far too simple. Instead, I sat in a waiting room that looks like a forgotten corner of the London Underground… circa 1973… complete with peeling posters, scuffed green carpet, and chairs that absolutely scream “Do Not Sit On Me Unless You Fancy A Mysterious Rash.”
Anyway, just when I thought the whole ordeal was over, and I could go back to my life with the smug glow of someone who had finally seen a doctor, I get this little gem of a text:
“Thinking about your recent appointment, how likely are you to recommend us to your friends and family? Please let us know by clicking on the link below.”
Give. Me. Strength.
I mean… is this real life? Is this the same NHS health centre that’s so overstretched I can’t even call reception without being placed on hold behind 47 other souls who just want a repeat prescription for antihistamines? Is this the same place that now wants me to recommend them to other people? Like they’re a bloody boutique hotel?
Honestly, this is the sort of text I expect from my local garage after I take the car in for its MOT. Or from the vet after Theo the cat has his flu jab. Maybe even from that nice restaurant in town asking for a five-star review for their truffle fries. But from my doctor? My NHS doctor? Trying to drum up more business like they’re launching a new skincare range on Instagram?
Sorry, what? You’re struggling to cope with the number of patients you’ve already got, and yet you’re actively encouraging us to recommend you to more people? That’s like Ryanair handing out loyalty cards mid-flight and saying, “Please tell your friends!” while everyone is clinging to their fold-down tray tables for dear life.
And who exactly do they think I’m going to recommend them to? The barista at my local café? “Oh hey, you’ve got a weird lump? You have to try my GP… if you’re lucky, you might get an appointment before your retirement party.” Or maybe I’ll recommend them to the bin man… “In case you find anything suspicious in the rubbish, Gary, just pop down to my health centre… you know, the one that’s too busy to see me when I’m bleeding from the eyeballs.”
And even if, hypothetically, I were the sort of person to complete a feedback survey (spoiler: I’m not), what exactly am I supposed to write? “Lovely ambience. Slight whiff of antiseptic and despair. Wouldn’t recommend for quick service, but great for developing patience and character.”
But let’s be real for a moment… who’s actually going to complain about their doctor in writing? You know what’ll happen. The next time you go in for a blood test, Nurse Olga’s going to suddenly forget which arm’s your good one and jab you like she’s testing a new tranquiliser dart for rhinos. No thanks.
So yes, the world has gone completely off the rails. My NHS health centre, once a proud bastion of healthcare and quiet suffering, is now acting like a hairdresser fishing for Yelp reviews. I’m just waiting for the next text: “Hey, babe! It was great seeing you yesterday! Swipe up to book your next smear!”
We’ve lost the plot. Completely.
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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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