I know an astonishing 89-year-old who climbs mountains, uses a chainsaw and has the muscular, vice-like grip of a gym-built thirtysomething. He refuses pills and painkillers and considers it vital to embrace life’s most horrifying experiences. Last week the astonishing 89-year-old tore his Achilles tendon (leaping into a moving car), was driven to A&E and referred for an ultrasound. On the way to the scanning room, helped along by a male nurse, he put his injured leg down by mistake and yelled: ‘FUCK!’ At this, the nurse turned on his heel and walked off, saying: ‘I don’t have to put up with this.’
This is the 89-year-old’s version of events, but I can visualise the scene: the wobbling old titan, trying to embrace the pain as part of life’s rich tapestry; the nurse in the corridor, tending to his own nerves. It’s almost a perfect picture of the collapse in grit from generation to generation. And it’s the natural consequence of an idea that’s burrowed its way into the public sector – that members of the public are violent lunatics, and that everyone must be constantly reminded of this or else anarchy will break out.
‘Zero tolerance’ is the principle, ‘zero tolerance for abuse of staff’, and it’s every-where, not just in the NHS but throughout the Underground, on trains, in libraries, supermarkets, airports.
‘What’s sexual harassment, Mum?’ my nine-year-old asks quite regularly as he reads the ‘zero tolerance’ notices on the train. This week I spent 40 minutes in my clapped-out car on the phone to the RAC trying to report that its website was down.
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