Confessions of a GP by Benjamin Daniels

the hospital and had caused unnecessary anxiety to the patient. I could just imagine the consultant grumbling into his endoscope as he cursed me for adding to his already busy day.
    The patient and her husband, however, thought the sun shone out of my arse. ‘That wonderful Dr Daniels arranged for me to be seen so quickly.’ She bought me a very nice bottle of single malt to say thank you and told anyone who’d listen how fantastic I was. My poor medical judgement earned me a rather nice bottle of whisky and if my patient got to fill in one of the patient satisfaction questionnaires, I’d have been reported as the best doctor in the world.
    Most medical practitioners have an idea whether they’re being good or bad doctors. On a Friday afternoon when I’m drained and tired, I know that I’m not giving my all. I try my best to remain professional but have to admit that I find it that bit harder to resist inappropriate requests for hospital referrals, sick notes and antibiotics. As GPs, we are supposed to be the ‘gatekeepers of the NHS’ but sometimes it can feel much easier to leave the gate permanently ajar rather than carefully defend the NHS hospital waiting lists by fending off the worried well. I’m very popular with my patients on a Friday afternoon because they are getting what they want, but I’m not always practising good medicine. Making the patient happy isn’t always the same as being a good doctor.
    When I started as a GP I was told that it was easy to be a bad GP but hard to be a good one. A good doctor won’t prescribe antibiotics for a cold and won’t refer every patient with a headache for an expensive MRI scan. A good doctor should also be able to explain to the patient why he’s not agreeing to their demands, but sometimes, however hard you try, the patient leaves feeling dissatisfied and the doctor goes home feeling distinctly unpopular. It is a difficult balance to run on time but give each patient adequate individual attention, to allow patient choice but not give in to inappropriate demands, to keep referral rates low but make sure the patients get the expert input they need. I’m still not sure exactly what a good doctor is, but it is certainly more complex than earning a few smiley faces on a government questionnaire.

Connor
    ‘It’s my kids, Doctor. They’re little fuckers. I can’t control ’em no more. Something’s gotta be done about it. My youngest, Connor, was brought home by the police the other day.’
    ‘How old is Connor’
    ‘He’s three.’
    I rack my brains trying to think what a three-year-old could possibly do to get himself in trouble with the police.
    ‘They caught him putting rubbish through the neighbours’ letter boxes.’
    ‘Was he out on his own?’ I ask incredulously.
    ‘Oh no, Doctor, Bradley and Kylie was with him, but they was the ones telling him to do it.’
    I skim through the notes to see that older siblings Bradley and Kylie are six and seven, respectively.
    Mum Kerry is actually very likeable. She is a stereotypical council estate mum. Only 25, but already has three kids with three different men who are all now nowhere to be seen. Life is hard for her and she has very little support. She genuinely wants the best for her kids and really wants help.
    Unfortunately for her, the entirety of my knowledge on child behaviour comes from having watched a couple of episodes of Supernanny on TV. I’ve never been the sternest of people and given the way my cat walks all over me, I’m probably not the best person to ask about discipline.
    ‘I think he’s got that DDHD condition. You know, where they’re little shits but it’s ’cause there’s something wrong with the chemicals in their brain and that.’
    I’ve met lots of parents whose children have had a diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). The parents love the label because it now excuses the bad behaviour. The kids run riot round my consulting room, rifling through