The appalling truth about London’s ambulance service

‘An old lady’s fallen down – quick! She’s bleeding. Come help.’ An elderly woman lay on the entrance steps of the block of mansion flats, food from a Tesco bag spilled around her, blood spreading on the stone. It was clear she’d tripped and banged her forehead, opening a large gash over her right eye. The courier had already tried to call an ambulance, but been put on hold. He had to continue his delivery run, so he’d begun ringing doorbells to summon assistance.

The lady was groggy but awake. I asked her name – Daphne. I helped her sit up, slowly, and propped her against the doorway’s cold brickwork. Checking she wouldn’t keel over, I ran inside for a box of tissues. We wadded up handfuls and pressed them on the wound to staunch the bleeding.

I dialled 999 and asked for the ambulance service. Like a fool, I believed that London actually still had one.

I dialled 999 and asked for the ambulance service. Like a fool, I believed London still had one

The operator came on the line in seconds – a hopeful sign. Or so I thought. Her questions were quick-fire and efficient: was the patient conscious? Yes; was she still bleeding? Yes; could she walk? No. Instructions on stopping the bleeding followed – clean tissues, pressure. So far, so good.

Then, our location. The operator wouldn’t log the address until she had the correct postcode. Though my mother lives in the block, I did not know it by heart and had to look through post in the hall. Next, the bureaucratic phase. The patient’s full name and date of birth (never an easy question to ask an elderly female stranger, least of all when she is close to fainting with pain and covered in blood). NHS number? By the time we got to this stage, I had been on the phone for 15 minutes, talking to the operator rather than tending to Daphne, who had begun to shiver.