Running update: I went to the doctor and said that my knee hurt, and that I was starting to blame the damp weather and did that mean I’m old? She vehemently – passionately – opposed the idea that I’m old (it turned out she’s the same age as me), declared my knee swollen and clicky, and referred me to musculo-skeletal.
More work’s come in, from a longer-term client… I feel like it’s all coming up Lainie. The fear of leaving the NHS comes in waves – I’ll be losing out on their pension plan, sick pay, funded training and other cynical employee retention ploys. And the feeling that I’m working for something good, you know? An organisation which allows me to see a GP, for free, when I’ve got a sore knee (that’s poetry) who will refer me to a specialist, for free, and if I need hospital treatment, that would all be free too (I know, I pay taxes, happily; free at point of contact is amazing, and free for people who can’t pay taxes is amazing). I love the NHS, as an employer, as a carer, as a concept. Yet I have absolutely no doubt that, once I’ve left, I will never want to go back on the wards.
It’s my daughter’s school harvest festival today. She says I don’t have to go as it’s dead boring and Goddist (her word), but I’ll go along, for solidarity as much as parenting.
Anyway, nice cup of tea.