quinquennial MOT

Received a belated birthday card in yesterday's post from the NHS. I jest; it was an invitation for me to make an appointment with my local GP for "your free NHS Health Check, which is being offered to people aged between 40 and 74 every five years"

Or, as I like to think of it, my quinquennial MOT.

Which is fine. It gives me the chance to feel smug that I'm still pretty active for my age, enough to raise the doctor's eyebrows, and gives the doctor a chance to feel smug for lecturing me about my alcohol consumption which, to be fair, is also enough to raise the doctor's eyebrows. 

It'll also be a chance to get my blood pressure checked, which has always been low enough to spark comment, but the last time it was checked, instead caused comment that it was "a little bit high".

Although at the time I was at the doc's surgery to see about a horrific, wracking cough, so she did concede even as she commented on it that it was most probably due to my chest infection. Which, looking back at the timing and circumstances now, was most likely me suffering the tail end of Covid, although who could tell, because tests weren't yet available and it wasn't, so say, in the country yet, although there did seem to be an awful lot of people around going through the same thing I was. 

In any case, it's not an experience I ever want to repeat.

But I digress.

In order to make the appointment, it was necessary to phone the surgery number they gave me on the invitation letter. Which is fair enough. However, trying to get through to my doc's surgery is always an absolute nightmare.

I hate holding music. It's almost always awful, brain mushing stuff on a short loop, although the other week whilst on hold (to whom I can't remember) I did get treated to a lovely bit of flamenco guitar.

And the doc's surgery doesn't have holding music. It has a beeping tone that lets you know you're on hold and waiting, which is cool. I like that. A lot. You can just sit there with the phone half hanging off your shoulder and only your subconscious listening whilst you get on with something else to productively fill the time in of that interminable twenty to thirty minute wait, knowing that when somebody finally does answer, it'll trigger and you can get on with making the appointment.

Except what I hate. No loathe. No, absolutely utterly infuriatingly maddeningly detest, is when they see fit to trigger a recorded apology for the the delay every ten damned seconds without fail.

Every ten damn seconds, the tone switches as if somebody's going to actually answer your call, and then you get a pre-recorded voice saying "Sorry to keep you waiting, we are experiencing a heavy amount of calls. We will answer your call as soon as possible."

No! If it's pre-recorded then you are NOT sorry. You don't care, or you'd have put enough staff on the phones to answer the volume of calls you were expecting. Except staff cost money and you probably aren't experiencing a heavy amount of calls and if you were the recorded notice wouldn't know because it's the same pre-recorded message we get every time we ring in hours, regardless of date or time of day and I've sat in your surgery waiting room and I know the phone isn't ringing off the hook because I'd hear it and see the panicked frenzy of your reception staff trying to deal with it the chaos. And it isn't there. Ever.

So you are not sorry, you probably aren't experiencing a heavy amount of calls, and it's not only insulting that you try to fob me off with this, but every ten damn seconds seconds without fail you trigger a little adrenaline rush from the boost gained by thing somebody's just answered, I've finally got through, that I've won the waiting game and am about to speak to an actual, real human being, and then  you crash me back down again with the same damned pre-recorded message I've been listening too for the last twenty minutes of my now completely disrupted life.

But at least there was no crappy holding music on a ten second loop to go with it.

Naturally, eventually a lovely lady did actually answer, offered me a couple of options as to what time I'd like my appointment, even had a bit of a laugh and a joke when I commented that asking me to pick a time was like asking me to pick a flavour of ice cream, and I could never make up my mind.

She sounded quite chilled. Certainly not the voice of somebody fielding a heavy amount (and you should have said "number") of calls. But that's fine. She's likely no idea of the aural hell I'd just been through in trying to reach her, so I wasn't going to take it out on her.

May 17th, 1340hrs. Appointment booked. Rant over. Thank you. Who needs a therapist when you've got a site on Blogger?