Our money should be spent on making the NHS actually work properly - Sarah Todd

These ramblings shouldn’t get too personal but every so often something happens that is perhaps worth reflecting on within these column inches.

Last week’s missive made mention of having had a brace of bumps to the head. There was light-hearted wondering whether the two separate incidents might have inadvertently knocked some sense into the old grey matter within.

There were also musings about seeking medical help, but the hope was very much that it wouldn’t be needed.

After the headaches and feelings of nausea got much worse the doctor’s surgery was telephoned to see if somebody might have a prod and a poke; maybe shine a torch into this procrastinating patient’s pupils or something.

That wouldn’t be happening, the receptionist reeled off; saying even if they could offer an appointment - which they couldn’t - the advice is always straight to hospital for head injuries.

So seven hours waiting in accident and emergency culminated in an obviously overwrought consultant confirming a bad case of concussion; suggesting a scan to see if there was any bleeding on the brain.

The only caveat was that this could involve a further four to six hours wait which, as it was already almost midnight, just couldn’t be faced. The hospital at that time of night wasn’t for the faint hearted. Some were in handcuffs, others shouting and swearing the worse for drink or drugs.

The length of the wait endured was nothing new - one poor lady who had suffered a stroke didn’t seem to be dealt with any speedier - but what shocked more than anything was the lack of any kind of onward organisation. The staff were firefighting the chaos in front of them; not one jot else.

“So, if I don’t stay I will be right back at the beginning?” the nurses were asked as they handed out chocolate biscuits and packets of crisps (how come food stuffed with sugar and salt is such a thing in hospitals?).

Yes, they confirmed, it would be back to square one; starting at the beginning waiting seven hours to see a doctor again - no option of getting an appointment booked for the scan.

That was the upshot they shrugged. So with warnings about watching out for blood appearing from the ears or nostrils the hospital building was vacated; a cloud of doomy disbelief at how utterly awful people were being treated still hasn’t really dispersed. Older people left cold in corridors, the simple caring of offering them a blanket or a sip of water just not happening.

It was a rum going on and reflecting on it here serves no purpose. It will be far worse in other more urban areas but the one good thing to come out of the whole episode was that it was a reminder that speaking out does matter.

If not for ourselves, then for those unable to make their voices heard. We mustn’t accept being treated in such a sub-standard way. Pursue net zero, hand out foreign aid and warmly welcome illegal migrants but not until the mess on our own doorsteps is sorted.

Our money should be spent on making the National Health Service actually work properly. Ranting aloud, it’s a disgrace all the fundraising air ambulances, hospices, charities researching diseases and drugs to cure them, along with those helping house veterans and looking after our old, disabled and vulnerable people have to do.

A certain age must have been reached, as a few weeks ago the BBC’s Antiques Roadshow was watched and former Olympic athlete Fatima Whitbread was on, the special guest in the slot where they ask somebody well known to bring in an item that means a lot to them.

She spoke about her difficult childhood; how she was abandoned as a baby and spent the first 14 years of her life in the care system before being adopted by the Whitbread family.

She brought along a Louby Lou doll from her childhood which meant so much to her as children in care very rarely have personal possessions to call their own.

The programme was aired before those bangs on the head, so they can’t be blamed, but her heartfelt appeal for better support to provide pathways out of the care system left your reporter wiping away a tear.

Fatima had met her mum-to-be Margaret Whitbread when she was umpiring a netball match. She had told Fatima off for shouting on court, but later dropped some second-hand boots, for playing sport in, down to the children’s home.

A prescription for them? Seven hours hospital waiting sounds about right for starters.