her mother in her more pigged-out phase, except that her mother wore hand-crocheted ethnic tents rather than starched blue uniforms.
Several wrong turnings later, and at the end of a rabbit warren of basement tunnels, Emma found medical staffing, although the staff seemed more interested in talking to each other than attending to the queue of new doctors that was building up. Eventually someone waddled up to the counter.
“Oh, I suppose you’re the new doctors,” she said, with body language that reeked of boredom. “You need to fill in these forms – in black ink, mind you, because we have to photocopy them – and then you can get your badges, except they’ll have probably gone off for lunch, so you’ll have to wait.”
Emma glanced at the form. Lots of questions about identity, addresses, medical degree, GMC registration and so on, all of which she thought they already had. She filled these in as best as she could and handed them back. Ms Boredom barely glanced at them and stamped the last page. “Now take this to get your badge,” she said, handing her a chit with her name on it, and then turned to the next doctor in the queue.
More wrong turns, more corridors, and feeling more like a process than a person, Emma wound up at the security desk. The security guard was in the process of finishing something that looked like a burger, the fat oozing out of the sides of his mouth and dripping down his chin.
“Hello love. You here for your badge?” he asked. He continued eating his burger and the fat continued dripping.
“Look, I’m just here to get my badge and bleep. Can we make it quick? I need to get back to the ward as matron is expecting me,” said Emma, feeling a combination of revulsion and panic.
“Okay, okay, keep your hair on,” he said, before putting down the burger and then taking the chit and turning to a box with badges and bleeps. “There, found it. Sign here and you’re ready to go.”
Emma signed the chit and collected her badge and bleep. She felt proud when she saw her name and title on the badge: ‘Dr Emma Jones, House Officer’. She looked at the security guard and, rather unexpectedly, sensed vulnerability beneath his gross exterior. She thought he deserved something better although she had absolutely no idea why the idea had crossed her mind.
The security guard stood with his mouth open in amazement. Emma wasn’t sure what to make of this reaction and turned around, holding on to the badge and bleep in case he decided to ask for them to be returned.
“Best of luck, doctor,” she heard as she walked back down the corridor.
After collecting her white coat, Emma retraced her steps back to the ward. By this time, matron had assembled the other house officers around her and seemed to be going through some sort of handover for the patients on the ward.
“Oh, there you are, Dr Jones. I’m glad to see you’re finally ready to start work,” said matron sarcastically. “Please remember that I run a tight ship on this ward.”
One of Emma’s fellow house officers whispered: “And bursting at the seams.”
Emma giggled just as matron turned her attention to her.
“And I don’t expect any insubordination! Patients go to theatre every day and we expect you to clerk them in, take their bloods, arrange x-rays, prepare the operation list, and then assist in theatre. Names go up on the board every morning. Phone numbers and bleeps are on the list next to the board. Your job this afternoon is to clerk in patients for tomorrow’s list and to review post-operative patients. Is that clear to everyone? Do you have any questions?”
Emma and her colleagues muttered “Yes” and “No.” They gathered around the board to look at the patients they’d be responsible for. Emma’s patients had a ‘Prof C’ next to them and there seemed to be a total of six in all: two post-op and four marked down as ‘TCI’. Two of the latter had ticks by their names, which she took to
Several wrong turnings later, and at the end of a rabbit warren of basement tunnels, Emma found medical staffing, although the staff seemed more interested in talking to each other than attending to the queue of new doctors that was building up. Eventually someone waddled up to the counter.
“Oh, I suppose you’re the new doctors,” she said, with body language that reeked of boredom. “You need to fill in these forms – in black ink, mind you, because we have to photocopy them – and then you can get your badges, except they’ll have probably gone off for lunch, so you’ll have to wait.”
Emma glanced at the form. Lots of questions about identity, addresses, medical degree, GMC registration and so on, all of which she thought they already had. She filled these in as best as she could and handed them back. Ms Boredom barely glanced at them and stamped the last page. “Now take this to get your badge,” she said, handing her a chit with her name on it, and then turned to the next doctor in the queue.
More wrong turns, more corridors, and feeling more like a process than a person, Emma wound up at the security desk. The security guard was in the process of finishing something that looked like a burger, the fat oozing out of the sides of his mouth and dripping down his chin.
“Hello love. You here for your badge?” he asked. He continued eating his burger and the fat continued dripping.
“Look, I’m just here to get my badge and bleep. Can we make it quick? I need to get back to the ward as matron is expecting me,” said Emma, feeling a combination of revulsion and panic.
“Okay, okay, keep your hair on,” he said, before putting down the burger and then taking the chit and turning to a box with badges and bleeps. “There, found it. Sign here and you’re ready to go.”
Emma signed the chit and collected her badge and bleep. She felt proud when she saw her name and title on the badge: ‘Dr Emma Jones, House Officer’. She looked at the security guard and, rather unexpectedly, sensed vulnerability beneath his gross exterior. She thought he deserved something better although she had absolutely no idea why the idea had crossed her mind.
The security guard stood with his mouth open in amazement. Emma wasn’t sure what to make of this reaction and turned around, holding on to the badge and bleep in case he decided to ask for them to be returned.
“Best of luck, doctor,” she heard as she walked back down the corridor.
After collecting her white coat, Emma retraced her steps back to the ward. By this time, matron had assembled the other house officers around her and seemed to be going through some sort of handover for the patients on the ward.
“Oh, there you are, Dr Jones. I’m glad to see you’re finally ready to start work,” said matron sarcastically. “Please remember that I run a tight ship on this ward.”
One of Emma’s fellow house officers whispered: “And bursting at the seams.”
Emma giggled just as matron turned her attention to her.
“And I don’t expect any insubordination! Patients go to theatre every day and we expect you to clerk them in, take their bloods, arrange x-rays, prepare the operation list, and then assist in theatre. Names go up on the board every morning. Phone numbers and bleeps are on the list next to the board. Your job this afternoon is to clerk in patients for tomorrow’s list and to review post-operative patients. Is that clear to everyone? Do you have any questions?”
Emma and her colleagues muttered “Yes” and “No.” They gathered around the board to look at the patients they’d be responsible for. Emma’s patients had a ‘Prof C’ next to them and there seemed to be a total of six in all: two post-op and four marked down as ‘TCI’. Two of the latter had ticks by their names, which she took to
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