Our toxic relationship with the NHS

The nurse fixed me with a disapproving stare: ‘Why is there such a gap between these prescriptions?’

I had gone for a blood pressure check so I could get my HRT, but when she looked at my notes she could see that they last prescribed it years ago.

The honest answer to her question was simple: ‘Because you were working from home.’ For this was the nurse who, when I last tried to get HRT from an NHS GP, was WFH.

During lockdown, I was told to buy a blood pressure machine online and send in a week of readings before they would repeat my prescription. The readings were high, as it happened, but they didn’t respond until I chased them, whereupon they told me the readings were of no interest, and they dispensed the medication anyway. The next time, therefore, I paid £80 to go private and actually see a doctor.

I looked at this nurse and weighed her up. I believe that when you prepare to row with someone you subconsciously assess the likely outcome of coming to blows.

Considering the size and scale of the woman, I determined I would be no match for her.

I said: ‘Oh, it’s just that I was in a hurry and couldn’t wait for an appointment. But I don’t mind at all.’

That wasn’t her concern. She minded. ‘Well, we can’t have you doing that!’ she harrumphed.

At which point I really should have said: ‘Now listen here. I didn’t get my prescription from the NHS because you lot were on your backsides Zooming.’

But I didn’t, because I was terrified. Hell hath no fury like an NHS scorned.