I am the NHS’S future: an entire ward in my spare room
An enterprising firm called Carerooms has proposed a novel way to ease the shortage of NHS beds: pay homeowners to let patients stay in their spare bedrooms. Basically, it would be like a medical version of Airbnb. After an outcry from Labour, however, a planned trial has been abandoned.
A pity, because I think the idea sounds brilliant. So much so, in fact, that I’ve converted my whole house into a hospital.
Seriously. I have. I know the usual Leftie hand-wringers will moan and kick up a fuss, but frankly they need to wake up. The harsh truth is, the NHS is struggling, and I’m offering a practical solution. And if it makes me and other homeowners a bit of extra cash on the side, where’s the harm?
It’s really quite simple. Anyone can do it. First, I cleared out my spare room to make way for patients. Once I’d got rid of the chest of drawers, the bedside table and the bed there was loads of space. Managed to squeeze in six lilos, side by side on the floor. Got a proper little ward in there now. The man nearest the door keeps complaining that everyone stands on him when they get up to go to the loo in the night, and a woman recovering from cellulitis did trip over his ankle and break her leg, so she’s going to be with us a few weeks longer than planned. But since I get £50 a night from the NHS for letting her stay here, that’s actually worked out quite nicely.
She didn’t even need to go back to the NHS hospital, either, because we do all our own treatment here. I don’t have any of that plaster stuff, but I did have half a bag of cement in the garage left over from when we did the patio, and that seems to have worked a treat. It’s amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it. Just the other day I performed a tracheotomy using only a fish slice, a teaspoon and a roll of Scotch tape.
Make do and mend, that’s the way. I had a man in recently saying he needed a gastric band. I didn’t have any of those, but I did have some elastic bands, and they’re near enough the same thing. I told him to swallow two before each meal. The weight should fall off in no time.
People are always banging on about austerity and cuts to the NHS. But the answers are out there, if we just use a bit of common sense.
Currently I have two parenting goals. One, to stop my three-yearold son from sucking his thumb. And two, as I wrote last week, to teach him to say please and thank you.
So far, success has been mixed. About a month ago the dentist told my son to stop sucking his thumb for the sake of his teeth and jaws. But, adding yet further credence to Michael Gove’s view that this country has “had enough of experts”, my son has chosen to disregard the cosy consensus of the dental elite, and now sucks his thumb with an air of furious anti-establishment defiance. He particularly likes to suck his thumb in the pushchair. “Now, now,” I say, whenever we’re out and about. “Remember what the dentist said?” With a glare that would curdle milk, my son reaches up with his free hand and pulls the pushchair’s hood over his head, so that he can suck his thumb in peace, out of my sight.
I admire it, in a way. There’s a certain sort of aristocratic disdain about the way he pulls the hood between us. It’s as if I’m a presumptuous Victorian stagecoach driver who has dared to attempt conversation with a dowager countess.
At home, though, the hood isn’t available – so my son has to resort to more direct forms of protest. The other morning, as we were getting ready to go out, I once again caught him sucking his thumb.
“Now, now,” I began. “Remember what the—”
My son sighed long-sufferingly. “Dada, go AWAY!” he shouted. My wife clicked her tongue. “Darling,” she scolded, “that was rude. You shouldn’t talk to Daddy like that. Be polite. Talk to Daddy nicely.”
In silence, my son reflected on this advice, and then turned back to me. “Go away PLEASE!” he shouted. He doesn’t always say please, so I’m calling that a result.
An interesting detail from the register of MPS’ interests. Theresa May and her husband Philip, it seems, have recently let out a flat they own in London. I wonder what it’s like for the tenant: having the actual Prime Minister as your landlady. Imagine it.
“Hi, is that Theresa? Yeah, hi Theresa, it’s Brian at 42b. Sorry to bother you, but I’m afraid there’s a problem with the loo again. It doesn’t seem to be flushing, and there’s this constant sound of running water coming from inside it, I don’t know what it means. Like, it’s just constantly running, but when I go to flush, nothing happens. Just this constant running water sound. Do you think you could come and have a look at it? Ideally today? Sorry, say again, I didn’t catch that. You’ve got meetings? Oh right. Well could you come after work maybe? I’ll be in from about seven. What, you’re working tonight as well? Blimey, you must have a lot on. Where do you work? What was that, sorry? Westminster area? Well, that’s not all that far from the flat, surely you could… What, not even for five minutes? Look, no offence, Theresa love, I’m sure you’re a busy person, aren’t we all, but I’m paying a lot of money here, London rents aren’t exactly cheap, and the fact is, the toilet’s bust. Surely you could at least send a plumber round. What do you mean, you’ve got someone on the other line? Donald? Donald who? Well, tell him you’re busy, you’ve got to sort out a plumber for your valued tenant. Theresa? Theresa? You still there?
“Oh for goodness’ sake, she’s hung up. Honestly. You pay your rent on time, you keep the place nice and tidy, you don’t throw parties or give the neighbours any trouble – and this is the treatment you get. Bloody rogue landlords. I’ve a good mind to write to my MP.”
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