Arse, arse, ARSE! I’m so cross that somehow the word ‘arse’ is no longer adequate to express my rage. As a result of our trust’s massive deficit, there’s a whole load of cost cutting going on. And like any trust, they spend money on tons of pointless things that achieve nothing, like anaesthetists’ SPA time, and the Department of General Medicine.
But of course, rather than clamping down on such wasteful spending, they decide to tinker round the edges and punish the hard-working, productive part of the hospital, in a way that will impact directly on frontline patient care.
That’s right. They’re going to make me SHARE AN OFFICE.
And not content with this act of vandalism that strikes at the very core of the NHS and its vulnerable patients, they’ve decided that the person I should be made to share with is none other than Dweeb knob mechanic JOHNSON.
Of course, he thinks it’s a great idea, given that his current office is a broom cupboard with no windows next to the mortuary. They’re going to put his desk where my sofa used to be, where I would sit during a snatched moment of peace in my hectic schedule and deface copies of BMA News. Now I will have to sit at my desk with nothing to look at but Johnson and all the framed pictures of his hideous wife and ginger children.
I mean for arse’s sake, how’s that going to work? Me - a right-thinking, pinstripe-wearing proper surgeon and Son of Thatcher - sharing an office with some soft-left beardy sandal-wearing aging hippy who smells faintly of compost and dilute urine.
How can such a disparate people ever work productively together? I mean, just give me ONE example.
Tags: Humour
