TEN YEARS FROM NOW

By Peter Murchie
Contact the author by e-mail at christopher.johnstone@ntlworld.com

The year is 2013. The great edifices of secondary care are decrepit crumbling hulks. Corridors where waist-coated consultants once swaggered echo forlornly, an occasional tumble-weed scuttling by. This contrasts starkly with the situation in general practice. Since the introduction of “the Great Contract” GP morale has reached stellar proportions, incentives to achieve primary prevention targets have made hospitals an irrelevance, save for those institutions dealing with sport’s injuries. Beaming, giddily happy GP’s deliver state of the art care from health centre’s reminiscent of the flight deck on Blake’s Seven. Government strategies seek to control the demand for rural and inner city vacancies. A lucky few hospital consultant’s have manned the lifeboats and made it to “G(olden) P(romise) land.” It is now three years since the partners of Northsea medical practice fled London in an orange VW camper van, their pocket watches glinting as they arrive in a brilliant north east dawn.

The central clock of Northsea medical practice chimed thirteen as Dr Winston coasted to the end of a busy and fulfilling morning surgery. Concluding his fifth and final consultation he reflected happily on ideas and expectations met, of hidden agenda’s skilfully unearthed, of negotiated treatment plans, of smiling fragrant patients taking ownership. Sinking back into the welcoming and enveloping luxury of his Le Corbusier, he exhaled happily and pressed the buzzer to summon Yvette. As he awaited his customary glass of Louis XIII and Cohiba, he gazed up at the gold-framed portrait of the Great Inspirer. A fantastic likeness he always thought, Emin’s subtle brushwork perfectly capturing the benign faun like qualities of the face, the gentle genius’s eyes gazing off into the middle distance, toward a glorious, golden future. Or present, he thought, chuckling inwardly, counting his blessings on the digits of his left hand in a way he felt certain the Great Inspirer would approve of, although with little need to safety net these days.

His personal assistant, Yvette entered with his “Cuban and French.” As he lit the Cohiba, he reflected on his wisdom at having visited Palacio del Tabaco in downtown Havana. He had restocked the practice humidor whilst the others on the practice away week had frittered away their free time at Castroland. Relaxants delivered, PA excused with characteristic badinage and a slender pile of patient notes, Dr Winston reached for the ambience console atop his enormous glass desk. Pressing the dictation node, he sank back once more, closing his eyes and stroking his luxuriant moustache, as oriental aromas filled the room. There was a lulling drone as the dictation droid lowered from its receptacle in the ceiling above. Retinal scan completed he spent the next few minutes securing outpatient appointments perfectly tailored to the needs of his patients. With just a soupcon of irritation he reflected on the time that would be wasted in the days ahead with patient’s calling to offer effusive thanks.

The morning admin complete he focussed his efforts on finishing his cigar and cognac. As he did so his mind ranged over those events beginning with “the Great Contract” which had persuaded him that general practice was the career for him, that his chair, peerage, television career and presidency of learned societies were but mere frippery in comparison.

He walked through the health centre corridors, enjoying the squeak of Gucci leather on polished Asian Oak Parquet. He passed through a panelled door, brass plated with the legend, partner’s coffee room. His partners Sir Peter and Professor George were there already, a bottle of Lafite ‘66 open and breathing on the Farniente coffee table and nestling alongside a platter of farmhouse cheeses. Sitting down in the high backed green leather armchair he smiled to the new violinist.

“Ah, Bob. Just it time. We were worried you’d be a while. That looked a heavy morning indeed” said Professor George, looking up as he supervised the partner’s batman in arranging the crystal. “Ach, it wasn’t too bad, Dod.” said Winston. “but I’m about ready for a beaker full of the warm south, let me tell you!. What say you Petey Boy.”

Sir Peter grunted his assent, engrossed as he was in that morning’s interactive news-holo-castTM. “Shall I play mother?” asked Professor George tilting the bottle and filling three glasses with a euphonious glug. Tasting note’s compared, Winston and Professor George fell to discussing the out of hours contact sheets from the previous night. The St John’s Ambulance and Boy’s Brigade first aid badge holders had indeed had a full and challenging night.

“My word!” bellowed Sir Peter. Winston and Professor George turned quickly, startled by their partner’s sudden ejaculation. “He’s done it again!”

Focussing their attention on that morning’s interactive news-holo-castTM they could see that their partner was right. “John Chisholm secures middle-east peace” trumpeted the projected headline. In the middle of the coffee room floor a remarkably hisuite 18 inch high hologram, praised his “old friend.” “Only to be expected with his negotiating skills” lauded the diminutive three-dimensional Nobel economics laureate. As the interactive news-holo-castTM switched to Prime Minster Archer’s performance at yesterday’s question time, conversation turned to how much they, the British public and the discipline of general practice itself owed to the current US President. Their hero applauded discussion turned toward less profound matters. All three were season ticket holders at the Stewarty Milne Superdome and had witnessed Aberdeen’s demolition of Inter Milan the previous evening. The squad, it was agreed, were going from strength to strength under Beckham’s player-manager-ship.

With the last drops of the Lafite ’66, thoughts inevitably turned to the remainder of the day’s work. Hudson, the batman tidied the cheese and wine things and then withdrew, headed for the staff briefing. The partner’s chauffeurs awaited their instructions. As senior partner, Sir Peter had an important meeting with the practice solicitor. It was with a certain sympathy that they discussed this shabby, overworked little man and the desolate metal grilled, graffiti besmirched hovel from which he was forced to practice his undervalued trade. Professor George, although on his three-quarter day was sitting on the General Media Council as a lay member. He briefly outlined the sordid case on which they would sit in judgement today, a Daily Mail hack on two counts of misquoting and one of sloppy pronunciation, the rod unlikely to be spared. Which left Winston. A couple to see at the Hatchery and Conditioning centre and then his weekly surgery at HMP Craiginches. As his driver opened the Bentley door, he scanned the Craiginches Surgery list, hoping against hope that Prisoner BS7655432 Blair wouldn’t be there.

Other hoolet online articles by Peter Murchie can be found at:
hoolet edition 49 - Sandyjim Saves the Day
hoolet edition 48 - And The Winner Is...
hoolet edition 47 - A Christmas Caper
hoolet edition 46 - The Edinburgh Festival
hoolet edition 45 - Struck By Enlightenment
hoolet edition 44 - The Pendleton Code
hoolet edition 43 - Christmas Eve at The Pole
hoolet edition 42 - An Unexpected Reunion
hoolet edition 41 - The Complementary Garage
hoolet edition 40- Up General Practice!!
hoolet edition 39- Ten Years From Now
hoolet edition 38 - Finlay and the Contract Summit
hoolet edition 37 - Johnny the Bow and the New Contract
hoolet edition 36 - Science For Football's Sake
hoolet edition 35 - Evidence-Based Golfing
hoolet edition 34 - Dr. Marlowe

hoolet is the magazine of RCGP Scotland. It is supported intellectually, financially and emotionally by RCGP Scotland.

This issue maintained by Robert Hallam.