last year," the weeping mother told me, "And now they say he can't go this year either." We had this conversation at the beginning of January.
Her son is now six. He has a medical condition which makes him doubly incontinent. There are other serious health problems too.
His parents were asked to delay his entry into school for a year "to see whether things improve". They haven't.
I can understand the family's local schools not wanting to take the child and I think the parents do as well. There needs to be a qualified nurse in attendance - or someone fully trained to take care of his special needs.
There is nowhere for him to go. There might have been once.
I came away feeling frustrated at having to advise correspondence school lessons - which the teachers at the hospital school will continue whenever he is there. He's going to be lonely because he is an only child and his physical problems mean that mixing with other children is always going to be difficult. A school dedicated to children with needs like his would make life very different.
There is very little "special education" left in this state. It was all about "integration" and only the most difficult and disruptive students are removed from the "normal" classroom. We have been told that "mainstreaming" is the way to go.
I had doubts from the beginning and the doubts have grown over the years. Yesterday there was an article in the Guardian talking about how many special schools in England were getting an "excellent" report from the OFSTED inspectors. The article asked why this was not being publicised. Suggestions were even made that the inspectors were just giving them those ratings out of sympathy. I would say that was utter rubbish. In my experience school inspectors are more likely to be critical. They know special schools are more expensive to run and when money is tight - as it usually is in education - they would be looking for excuses to close such schools.
No, a good special school can be very good indeed. It can be outstanding. It can give children the skills to move into other schools and it give them the skills to move out into the community. It can make the most of a child's abilities. It won't make a child with a permanent disability "normal" but it can make the child a great citizen.
I wonder whether the real problem with special schools is something else. If you are mainstreamed then you can pretend that, at least in some ways, things are "normal". You can pretend that the child is "accepted" and is "part of society" and is "doing most of the things that other kids do". You don't need to feel "guilty". It makes you feel better. The child is being "socialised" and has "normal" friends. Somehow that makes the child "normal" too. Special schools are said to deny those vital "normal" experiences.
Rubbish.
About six years ago I went to the last school reunion of an outstanding special school. It was about to close for good. In that room there were two people with doctorates, three more with degrees, and at least seven with other good post-school qualifications. All but the most profoundly disabled students with additional communication impairments were employed. The school had handled physically disabled students with profound hearing losses and with severe visual impairments. It had all happened because of the intensive specialist work put in by the staff and the students - all day and every day.
Children with similar impairments are now out in ordinary schools. They get limited help from a classroom teacher - who has responsibilities for other children too. They get some help from teacher aides - if they are lucky. They might, if they are lucky, get some specialist assistance once a week from a peripatetic teacher with some additional qualifications. It's not the same. It can never be the same.
And some children cannot go to school at all.
Wednesday, 21 January 2015
Tuesday, 20 January 2015
Adele Geras has a new
"quick reads" book, "Out of the dark" coming out in February. (Quercus) The "blurb" on the back caught my attention because it is rather similar to a real-life story I was once told.
I knew a very old man, now deceased, in this district. He went off to WWI as a very young man, very young indeed. Tom had been brought up in an orphanage. He lied about his age to go - and they took him. I can remember him telling me "I had no idea of course. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I just thought it was preferable to being by myself."
He was sent to France and endured the unimaginable horrors of life in the trenches. Next to him was another young man, one just old enough to go. This second young man had a sister who had knitted him a pair of socks. She had knitted his initials into the top of the socks. The two boys were, perhaps inevitably, both wounded.
When the owner of the socks was dying he elicited a promise from his younger, seriously wounded friend that he would go and see his sister and take the socks with him. Tom took the socks.
When he was eventually repatriated. He went to the address he was given only to discover that the family had moved. Nobody seemed to know where they had gone but eventually a postal employee gave him an address in another part of the country. It was over four hundred miles away.
Tom had no money and he was not in a fit state of health but he set out to walk - and he took the socks. He worked odd jobs along the way.
"I don't know what made me do it. I could have posted the damn things to her," he told me with a smile.
Eventually he found the house in the suburbs of another city. It took time but he summoned up the courage to knock on the door. It was answered by the mother who thought he was one of the many men tramping the countryside at the time. She was prepared to offer food but, for once, he shook his head. He held out the socks and told her how he had come by them. They were barely worn.
She looked down at his feet. He was wearing roughly fashioned "shoes" of kangaroo skin.
And yes, he met the daughter. They were married for fifty-four years before her death.
I knew a very old man, now deceased, in this district. He went off to WWI as a very young man, very young indeed. Tom had been brought up in an orphanage. He lied about his age to go - and they took him. I can remember him telling me "I had no idea of course. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I just thought it was preferable to being by myself."
He was sent to France and endured the unimaginable horrors of life in the trenches. Next to him was another young man, one just old enough to go. This second young man had a sister who had knitted him a pair of socks. She had knitted his initials into the top of the socks. The two boys were, perhaps inevitably, both wounded.
When the owner of the socks was dying he elicited a promise from his younger, seriously wounded friend that he would go and see his sister and take the socks with him. Tom took the socks.
When he was eventually repatriated. He went to the address he was given only to discover that the family had moved. Nobody seemed to know where they had gone but eventually a postal employee gave him an address in another part of the country. It was over four hundred miles away.
Tom had no money and he was not in a fit state of health but he set out to walk - and he took the socks. He worked odd jobs along the way.
"I don't know what made me do it. I could have posted the damn things to her," he told me with a smile.
Eventually he found the house in the suburbs of another city. It took time but he summoned up the courage to knock on the door. It was answered by the mother who thought he was one of the many men tramping the countryside at the time. She was prepared to offer food but, for once, he shook his head. He held out the socks and told her how he had come by them. They were barely worn.
She looked down at his feet. He was wearing roughly fashioned "shoes" of kangaroo skin.
And yes, he met the daughter. They were married for fifty-four years before her death.
Monday, 19 January 2015
Why do people want to go to
Bali on holiday anyway?
The Whirlwind came back from holiday yesterday. She and her father went to a fairly remote beach location in this state. They "didn't do much" according to her. Was she bored? No.
"I did heaps of reading. I used up two big sketchpads and three little ones. We played chess and Scrabble and we started to learn how to play Go. It's harder than chess..." and so she went on - enthusiastically.
A friend of hers went to Bali with her family. I asked what said friend had thought of it.
"I don't think she liked it."
I must investigate further.
One of my nephews went to Bali with a friend. They did not go to the tourist part. My nephew never did see the tourist strip. He didn't want to. The two boys went to a quiet, very quiet, part of the north. They stayed a fortnight. My nephew was ready to come home after a week. He could lie on the beach here. (He isn't really interested in doing it anywhere.)
I don't understand the fascination with Bali. I know people who have been more than once - and would go again. They don't venture out of the tourist area. They seem to believe they have been somewhere exotic on holiday. Perhaps it is - for them. I rather suspect Bali is a money-laundering site for a certain group.
Drugs? People who have come back seem to fall into two groups. Either they say nobody offered them any or that they are readily available. I don't know.
I wouldn't take the risk. As I have said elsewhere I am opposed to the death penalty. The last man to be hung in England was not the man who pulled the trigger - although he was present at the scene of the crime. The other man was too young. They ended up changing his identity and sending him to New Zealand.
Bali has just executed six people for drug offences. There will be more executions. I don't think anyone should doubt that. Nor should anyone doubt that the vicious drug trade will continue. Those at the very top are safe as long as they remain at the top - and people continue to holiday in Bali.
I think the Whirlwind probably had the better holiday.
The Whirlwind came back from holiday yesterday. She and her father went to a fairly remote beach location in this state. They "didn't do much" according to her. Was she bored? No.
"I did heaps of reading. I used up two big sketchpads and three little ones. We played chess and Scrabble and we started to learn how to play Go. It's harder than chess..." and so she went on - enthusiastically.
A friend of hers went to Bali with her family. I asked what said friend had thought of it.
"I don't think she liked it."
I must investigate further.
One of my nephews went to Bali with a friend. They did not go to the tourist part. My nephew never did see the tourist strip. He didn't want to. The two boys went to a quiet, very quiet, part of the north. They stayed a fortnight. My nephew was ready to come home after a week. He could lie on the beach here. (He isn't really interested in doing it anywhere.)
I don't understand the fascination with Bali. I know people who have been more than once - and would go again. They don't venture out of the tourist area. They seem to believe they have been somewhere exotic on holiday. Perhaps it is - for them. I rather suspect Bali is a money-laundering site for a certain group.
Drugs? People who have come back seem to fall into two groups. Either they say nobody offered them any or that they are readily available. I don't know.
I wouldn't take the risk. As I have said elsewhere I am opposed to the death penalty. The last man to be hung in England was not the man who pulled the trigger - although he was present at the scene of the crime. The other man was too young. They ended up changing his identity and sending him to New Zealand.
Bali has just executed six people for drug offences. There will be more executions. I don't think anyone should doubt that. Nor should anyone doubt that the vicious drug trade will continue. Those at the very top are safe as long as they remain at the top - and people continue to holiday in Bali.
I think the Whirlwind probably had the better holiday.
Sunday, 18 January 2015
"There are too many books in this house,"
Middle Cat informed us. She was looking at a selection of goodies the Senior Cat had found on sale at the library - used library books, excess to their requirements.
She looked severely at the Senior Cat. He smiled.
"I'm serious," Middle Cat protested, "You should get rid of some."
"Yes, perhaps...one day," Senior Cat told her. He had that long-suffering look on his face - the one he has every time she tries to bully him.
Middle Cat is a bully. She likes to organise people and tell them what to do. I dislike being organised. I hate being told what to do. I was never a team player. The Senior Cat is not much better.
Middle Cat tried to tell him he should do it "now".
"Every time you buy a new one you should get rid of at least two old ones."
"Yes dear," he said with absolutely no intention of obeying her.
She turned her attention to me.
"You don't need all those dictionaries or those or those. You can get all that stuff on line these days. You could get rid of them and stop cluttering the place up."
No. It doesn't work like that. I don't work like that. I like books. My reference books sometimes look like hedgehogs with their little paper spikes bristling out of their spines. I sometimes need to have four or five open at a time. I need to be able to flip backwards and forwards.
"I've never even heard of half of these. You can't possibly need to use them." She pulled out a dictionary of Melanesian Pidgin. "I bet you've never even used this."
"Take a look inside," I told her and put the kettle on for the Senior Cat to have a cup of tea.
She put the book back on the shelf. If she had looked inside she would have discovered a good many pencil ticks against words - words that were used to set up a communication board for an emergency.
Middle Cat does not read a lot. There is just one bookshelf in their house. The books in it are mainly medical texts.
"You should watch...." Middle Cat goes on to Senior Cat and tells him about a "funny" television series. He watches almost no television. The series is on a "commercial" station that airs seventeen minutes of advertising in every hour. There is no way he would tolerate that. I can't tolerate that.
"No, I have to go," Middle Cat tells me when I ask her if she is staying to drink cups of tea with the Senior Cat.
She takes the book she came to borrow and leaves. The Senior Cat opens one of his new found treasures and immerses himself in tea and words.
Half an hour later I remind him that the hose is still sprinkling on "that patch". Does he want me to move it? Oh. Yes. He got caught up in the words.
"We have too many books in this house," he tells me - but he won't do anything about it and neither will I.
She looked severely at the Senior Cat. He smiled.
"I'm serious," Middle Cat protested, "You should get rid of some."
"Yes, perhaps...one day," Senior Cat told her. He had that long-suffering look on his face - the one he has every time she tries to bully him.
Middle Cat is a bully. She likes to organise people and tell them what to do. I dislike being organised. I hate being told what to do. I was never a team player. The Senior Cat is not much better.
Middle Cat tried to tell him he should do it "now".
"Every time you buy a new one you should get rid of at least two old ones."
"Yes dear," he said with absolutely no intention of obeying her.
She turned her attention to me.
"You don't need all those dictionaries or those or those. You can get all that stuff on line these days. You could get rid of them and stop cluttering the place up."
No. It doesn't work like that. I don't work like that. I like books. My reference books sometimes look like hedgehogs with their little paper spikes bristling out of their spines. I sometimes need to have four or five open at a time. I need to be able to flip backwards and forwards.
"I've never even heard of half of these. You can't possibly need to use them." She pulled out a dictionary of Melanesian Pidgin. "I bet you've never even used this."
"Take a look inside," I told her and put the kettle on for the Senior Cat to have a cup of tea.
She put the book back on the shelf. If she had looked inside she would have discovered a good many pencil ticks against words - words that were used to set up a communication board for an emergency.
Middle Cat does not read a lot. There is just one bookshelf in their house. The books in it are mainly medical texts.
"You should watch...." Middle Cat goes on to Senior Cat and tells him about a "funny" television series. He watches almost no television. The series is on a "commercial" station that airs seventeen minutes of advertising in every hour. There is no way he would tolerate that. I can't tolerate that.
"No, I have to go," Middle Cat tells me when I ask her if she is staying to drink cups of tea with the Senior Cat.
She takes the book she came to borrow and leaves. The Senior Cat opens one of his new found treasures and immerses himself in tea and words.
Half an hour later I remind him that the hose is still sprinkling on "that patch". Does he want me to move it? Oh. Yes. He got caught up in the words.
"We have too many books in this house," he tells me - but he won't do anything about it and neither will I.
Saturday, 17 January 2015
"The reality of being Stephen Hawking
is messier than Redmayne can convey" is the title of an article by Anne Perkins in the Guardian.
I don't know who Anne Perkins is but she was criticising the portrayal of Hawking's life in the film, "The theory of everything". I have not seen the film so I cannot comment on whether Anne Perkins's ability to comment on the film or the film.
Years ago I did see Daniel Day Lewis in "My Left Foot". A group of "us crips" (we all have cerebral palsy) went to see it - eleven of us if I remember correctly. Most of us had read the book as well.
What did we think of it? We enjoyed it. We thought Lewis was good, indeed very good - so did the critics. He won an Oscar for his performance.
I know a other people who did not like it. They found it too confronting. It was, they said, "too real".
I suspect they have "tidied up" Hawking's day-to-day life too. The reality is that it would not make a good film. It would be too slow. It would, quite frankly, be boring to watch someone being lifted from bed, washed, shaved, dressed, fed etc. People want something to happen.
Does "tidying up" make it a bad film? Is it wrong to ignore the "messiness"? I don't think so. If I do see the film I think the thing that will bother me the most will be the inability of anyone to convey the frustration at not being able to communicate through speech.
It has to be said here that I can speak. I probably talk too much! But I have good friends who have severe and even profound communication problems. I have taught children with severe and profound communication problems. The effort they have to put into communicating even the simplest messages is something I only partially understand. I understand it only from my point of view - even when I am trying to think of how to frame the next question so that they can answer me "yes" or "no". ("Yes" by looking up and "no" by looking down.)
Could I portray that in a book? I don't know. I haven't tried. Would I need to do it from my point of view - or theirs? I don't know.
I did put a character with a disability into one book - but I write about her from her brother's point of view. A friend, now deceased, asked me why I had not written the story from her point of view. "You could you know," she told me.
I could write a book from her point of view - but it would be a different story. The story I wrote is Michael's story - not Chantal's.
And of course Michael is a "normal" boy. The other characters who appear in the book are "normal" people. I can write about them can't I?
One of the things writing has to be about is trying to get under the skin of the characters - what do they think, believe, feel, do, know? How do they do these things?
If reading or seeing a film or play is about "the willing suspension of disbelief" then writing has to be about that too. We have to believe we are the character we are writing about for a moment. We have to know whether they like cornflakes or porridge for breakfast - or no breakfast at all. We will probably never write that into what we are writing - but we should know it.
And we have to be able to write about the things we need to write about. Michael needs Chantal - and he needs Chantal to be the way she is. I had to write it that way. I may not have succeeded - it certainly hasn't been published - but I tried.
So, they may not have got the film about everything right from the point of view of real life - but they will have got something right. It's a start - and it may be as far as any of us can go. Quite possibly the film portrays as much as we would want to understand. As TS Eliot puts it, "Humankind cannot bear very much reality."
I don't know who Anne Perkins is but she was criticising the portrayal of Hawking's life in the film, "The theory of everything". I have not seen the film so I cannot comment on whether Anne Perkins's ability to comment on the film or the film.
Years ago I did see Daniel Day Lewis in "My Left Foot". A group of "us crips" (we all have cerebral palsy) went to see it - eleven of us if I remember correctly. Most of us had read the book as well.
What did we think of it? We enjoyed it. We thought Lewis was good, indeed very good - so did the critics. He won an Oscar for his performance.
I know a other people who did not like it. They found it too confronting. It was, they said, "too real".
I suspect they have "tidied up" Hawking's day-to-day life too. The reality is that it would not make a good film. It would be too slow. It would, quite frankly, be boring to watch someone being lifted from bed, washed, shaved, dressed, fed etc. People want something to happen.
Does "tidying up" make it a bad film? Is it wrong to ignore the "messiness"? I don't think so. If I do see the film I think the thing that will bother me the most will be the inability of anyone to convey the frustration at not being able to communicate through speech.
It has to be said here that I can speak. I probably talk too much! But I have good friends who have severe and even profound communication problems. I have taught children with severe and profound communication problems. The effort they have to put into communicating even the simplest messages is something I only partially understand. I understand it only from my point of view - even when I am trying to think of how to frame the next question so that they can answer me "yes" or "no". ("Yes" by looking up and "no" by looking down.)
Could I portray that in a book? I don't know. I haven't tried. Would I need to do it from my point of view - or theirs? I don't know.
I did put a character with a disability into one book - but I write about her from her brother's point of view. A friend, now deceased, asked me why I had not written the story from her point of view. "You could you know," she told me.
I could write a book from her point of view - but it would be a different story. The story I wrote is Michael's story - not Chantal's.
And of course Michael is a "normal" boy. The other characters who appear in the book are "normal" people. I can write about them can't I?
One of the things writing has to be about is trying to get under the skin of the characters - what do they think, believe, feel, do, know? How do they do these things?
If reading or seeing a film or play is about "the willing suspension of disbelief" then writing has to be about that too. We have to believe we are the character we are writing about for a moment. We have to know whether they like cornflakes or porridge for breakfast - or no breakfast at all. We will probably never write that into what we are writing - but we should know it.
And we have to be able to write about the things we need to write about. Michael needs Chantal - and he needs Chantal to be the way she is. I had to write it that way. I may not have succeeded - it certainly hasn't been published - but I tried.
So, they may not have got the film about everything right from the point of view of real life - but they will have got something right. It's a start - and it may be as far as any of us can go. Quite possibly the film portrays as much as we would want to understand. As TS Eliot puts it, "Humankind cannot bear very much reality."
Friday, 16 January 2015
The first round offers for university
places are out in this morning's papers. I have just prowled through them to check on "my" students.
All but one of them has gained a place in the course of their choice. The other will not be disappointed - just pleased to have a place at all after a year made difficult by very serious family trauma. There is always the chance to transfer into her chosen course.
Offers used not to come in a long list in the paper where everyone could see it. They came in envelopes. You could tell by the size of the envelope whether you had an offer or not - although not what the offer would be. At least it came to your home. (I hasten to add I never had such an envelope. I did my university degrees in a different order and by a different means.)
There was a very limited range of university degrees when I left school. There was just one university. Entry was much more difficult and places were definitely limited. My brother was offered a place two years later - but could only take it up by agreeing to train as a teacher. There was a choice, from memory, of Arts, Science, Law, Medicine, Dentistry, Pharmacy, Architecture and Engineering. Music was taught at the Conservatorium. There were specialisations within those degrees of course.
The Senior Cat did his part-time on leaving college (as did most young teachers who wanted to get on) in English and Latin with a subsidiary in History. His (then compulsory) science subject was Geology. He loathed it but one of his good friends was specialising in Geology and coached/coaxed him through it.
Now you can do a degree in just about anything it seems. Tourism? Environment? Media Arts? Nursing? They are some of the less unusual choices now.
I wonder about all this. I see some of the work students turn in. Some of it is good but the standard is not consistent across universities or degrees or even within degrees. It seems ideas about what a university is and is for have changed.
Perhaps it is a good thing to have the greater variety and more students attending. But are some of those degrees really worthy of the name? Is this why my nephews are embarking on their part-time postgraduate studies with sighs of resignation knowing that they need to be a Master rather than a Bachelor?
All but one of them has gained a place in the course of their choice. The other will not be disappointed - just pleased to have a place at all after a year made difficult by very serious family trauma. There is always the chance to transfer into her chosen course.
Offers used not to come in a long list in the paper where everyone could see it. They came in envelopes. You could tell by the size of the envelope whether you had an offer or not - although not what the offer would be. At least it came to your home. (I hasten to add I never had such an envelope. I did my university degrees in a different order and by a different means.)
There was a very limited range of university degrees when I left school. There was just one university. Entry was much more difficult and places were definitely limited. My brother was offered a place two years later - but could only take it up by agreeing to train as a teacher. There was a choice, from memory, of Arts, Science, Law, Medicine, Dentistry, Pharmacy, Architecture and Engineering. Music was taught at the Conservatorium. There were specialisations within those degrees of course.
The Senior Cat did his part-time on leaving college (as did most young teachers who wanted to get on) in English and Latin with a subsidiary in History. His (then compulsory) science subject was Geology. He loathed it but one of his good friends was specialising in Geology and coached/coaxed him through it.
Now you can do a degree in just about anything it seems. Tourism? Environment? Media Arts? Nursing? They are some of the less unusual choices now.
I wonder about all this. I see some of the work students turn in. Some of it is good but the standard is not consistent across universities or degrees or even within degrees. It seems ideas about what a university is and is for have changed.
Perhaps it is a good thing to have the greater variety and more students attending. But are some of those degrees really worthy of the name? Is this why my nephews are embarking on their part-time postgraduate studies with sighs of resignation knowing that they need to be a Master rather than a Bachelor?
Thursday, 15 January 2015
Pay more for a visit to the doctor?
This issue is under discussion - or should I say there are howls of rage?
Downunder has a Medicare scheme. A levy is imposed on all tax payers to fund a national health scheme. As a result some people get "bulk-billed" for a visit to their GP - i.e. they pay nothing - and others have to pay. Those who pay are of course those who earn an income over a certain amount. There has never been a requirement for doctors to "bulk-bill" anyone and some don't.
Bulk-billing however has led to two things. The first is that some patients have taken advantage of or even abused the system and made many more trips to the doctor than are necessary. The second is that some doctors have abused the system by seeing many patients - perhaps one every ten minutes.
I suspect that the doctors who do this are very much in the minority but it may be a different story with the patients. I know people, particularly elderly and lonely people, who see a trip to the doctor for some minor ailment as a social outing. I know other people who will go to the doctor seeking antibiotics for a cold, because they have stubbed a toe wandering around bare-foot or because they have been bitten by a mosquito. (Yes, really.)
Then there is the "sick-note" so you can "take a sickie" (sometimes a day off to recover from a hangover) and "doctor-shopping" to find the doctors more likely to grant you these things and the antibiotics/attention you crave.
And now there are suggestions that, should the system be changed, the emergency departments of hospitals will be overloaded with non-urgent emergencies.
So, what is it with us and doctors? The Senior Cat needs to see the doctor once a month - because the government will only allow a certain prescription to be filled for a month. Someone, somewhere - when the drug was new - decided that the patient should be monitored once a month. Years later that has not changed although both doctor and patient know it is not necessary.
I try not to bother my GP. She knows that I will only see her if it is absolutely necessary. I have had one lot of antibiotics in the past thirty or more years - and yes, I was ill enough to need them. I have been fortunate.
But I wonder about other people. Are we getting sicker or turning into a nation of hypochondriacs? Are there a lot of lonely people out there? Do we need a different sort of medical system - one which would allow people to turn up to a "minor ailment" clinic where someone could take their temperature and blood pressure and listen to their chest and then decide whether to send them on to the doctor?
I would not like to be a GP - or indeed any sort of doctor. If I need to pay more to visit my GP I will - but I will only go and see her if I need to.
Downunder has a Medicare scheme. A levy is imposed on all tax payers to fund a national health scheme. As a result some people get "bulk-billed" for a visit to their GP - i.e. they pay nothing - and others have to pay. Those who pay are of course those who earn an income over a certain amount. There has never been a requirement for doctors to "bulk-bill" anyone and some don't.
Bulk-billing however has led to two things. The first is that some patients have taken advantage of or even abused the system and made many more trips to the doctor than are necessary. The second is that some doctors have abused the system by seeing many patients - perhaps one every ten minutes.
I suspect that the doctors who do this are very much in the minority but it may be a different story with the patients. I know people, particularly elderly and lonely people, who see a trip to the doctor for some minor ailment as a social outing. I know other people who will go to the doctor seeking antibiotics for a cold, because they have stubbed a toe wandering around bare-foot or because they have been bitten by a mosquito. (Yes, really.)
Then there is the "sick-note" so you can "take a sickie" (sometimes a day off to recover from a hangover) and "doctor-shopping" to find the doctors more likely to grant you these things and the antibiotics/attention you crave.
And now there are suggestions that, should the system be changed, the emergency departments of hospitals will be overloaded with non-urgent emergencies.
So, what is it with us and doctors? The Senior Cat needs to see the doctor once a month - because the government will only allow a certain prescription to be filled for a month. Someone, somewhere - when the drug was new - decided that the patient should be monitored once a month. Years later that has not changed although both doctor and patient know it is not necessary.
I try not to bother my GP. She knows that I will only see her if it is absolutely necessary. I have had one lot of antibiotics in the past thirty or more years - and yes, I was ill enough to need them. I have been fortunate.
But I wonder about other people. Are we getting sicker or turning into a nation of hypochondriacs? Are there a lot of lonely people out there? Do we need a different sort of medical system - one which would allow people to turn up to a "minor ailment" clinic where someone could take their temperature and blood pressure and listen to their chest and then decide whether to send them on to the doctor?
I would not like to be a GP - or indeed any sort of doctor. If I need to pay more to visit my GP I will - but I will only go and see her if I need to.
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