Many moons ago, pre-NHS, if I wanted to have a ear syringed I'd pop to the doctor's and he'd do it there and then; might have to wait an hour or so but it would be done. Now?
Sunday morning I woke to find that my right ear was clogged with wax. I phoned my doctor's surgery on Monday.
"I have a blocked ear; can I get it syringed?"
"You'll have to put earex in it for five days before it can be syringed."
"I put some in yesterday; it's now Monday so can I have it done on Thursday?
"There are no nurses here on Thursdays."
"What about Friday then?"
"Let me see. No, none available I'm afraid."
"Listen, I've booked for a concert on Friday evening, French music, Ravel and Debussey. I'll only be able to hear it with one ear. Couldn't you slip me in somehow?"
"No."
"what can I do then?"
" Next Monday all right?"
"I suppose so."
"Monday at our other surgery at 10.50."
Later that day I went to the surgery to pick up a prescription. I thought might as well ask the girl behind the desk:
"Any chance of seeing a nurse on Friday this week?"
"Yes. 12.30."
"Great."
She wrote the day and time on a piece of paper for me.
Tuesday afternoon I happened to look at the paper. It said "Tuesday at 1.30pm."
I phoned the surgery.
"I came there yesterday and asked for an appointment with a nurse on Friday; she's given me one today at 1.30."
"That's gone."
"I know it's gone but it's not my fault - she booked it when I asked for Friday."
"There's nothing available on Friday."
"I know, I was told that Monday morning. But it's ok, I have an appointment at your other surgery on Monday to get a ear syringed."
"They don't do syringing there."
"What? But I booked an appointment."
"You booked with a new woman on the desk. The next you can have is next Wednesday."
"That's 10 days from the time I had the problem"
"Sorry."
"Ok, book it please."
Then I had a brainwave. I shall phone Spiral (used to be Bupa I believe) and pay for it.
"Spiral here."
"Can I have my ear syringed on Friday."
"Yes."
"Good. How much will it be?"
"Well you'll have to see a consultant first; it will be under £50."
Yeah, £49.50 I thought.
"No thanks."
Another brainwave. The University of Wales Hospital's ear department.
"I wonder if I could come there and have my ear syringed."
"Not unless your doctor has referred you."
Which would mean a wait of a couple of months, no doubt.
So, to the concert on Friday with one ear good and one bad. A few drinks are called for before the concert I think. Maybe a few afterwards too.
Some NHS this is!
Thursday 15 September 2011
Wednesday 14 September 2011
Downton Abbey
I don't like it. That's a bit unfair since I have seen only twenty minutes or so of it; but "Downton Abbey" I decided, after only 20 minutes, wasn't for me. I sort of disapproved of it but I couldn't find words to express why. It had to do with the snobbery, the Upstairs/Downstairs feel of it, the Them and Us thing, the complacency and superiority of the ones who were well off and the regard for them by their underlings. I just felt it was a world that had gone and good riddance to it.
Of course it hasn't gone. There's the monarchy and the aristocracy and the hangers-on and the Oxbridge set and their rag balls and the boat race and the blues rugger match....
I wrote a short play some time ago about the rector of Stiffkey who became famous, or more famously, infamous as a result of spending the greater part of his week in London, instead of Stiffkey, helping prostitutes find a way to reform their lives. He became known as The Rector of Stiffkey (also as The Prostitutes Rector) and his fame was kept alive for some time by the sensational press coverage. I thought a trip to Stiffkey would be interesting. And it was because I met the present occupier of the Rectory, now a Vicarage. He was a pleasant guy; he wanted to chat about the infamous rector and the people of his parish who would not wish to have to live again the pain of his defrocking. In the course of the conversation the vicar told me how he was in a local shop one day buying something or other and when he turned to leave who should he come face to face with but Julian Fellowes. He mentioned this in a way that I knew he found exciting, as if he had met someone in the royal family or, maybe, a high-up in the church. I felt there was something about his telling me a certain boastfulness: he had met and spoken to Julian Fellowes.
In The Daily Mail recently A. N. Wilson wrote a scathing piece on Julian Fellowes and in the course of his article summed up what I could not myself put my finger on as regards Downton Abbey. He wrote: "Downton Abbey glorifies an ordering of society that was hateful in reality. While the real-life aristocracy of Edwardian England lived in grandeur and expected other people to wait on them and attend to all their needs, the great majority of British people lived without sanitation, education or comfort."
Of course it hasn't gone. There's the monarchy and the aristocracy and the hangers-on and the Oxbridge set and their rag balls and the boat race and the blues rugger match....
I wrote a short play some time ago about the rector of Stiffkey who became famous, or more famously, infamous as a result of spending the greater part of his week in London, instead of Stiffkey, helping prostitutes find a way to reform their lives. He became known as The Rector of Stiffkey (also as The Prostitutes Rector) and his fame was kept alive for some time by the sensational press coverage. I thought a trip to Stiffkey would be interesting. And it was because I met the present occupier of the Rectory, now a Vicarage. He was a pleasant guy; he wanted to chat about the infamous rector and the people of his parish who would not wish to have to live again the pain of his defrocking. In the course of the conversation the vicar told me how he was in a local shop one day buying something or other and when he turned to leave who should he come face to face with but Julian Fellowes. He mentioned this in a way that I knew he found exciting, as if he had met someone in the royal family or, maybe, a high-up in the church. I felt there was something about his telling me a certain boastfulness: he had met and spoken to Julian Fellowes.
In The Daily Mail recently A. N. Wilson wrote a scathing piece on Julian Fellowes and in the course of his article summed up what I could not myself put my finger on as regards Downton Abbey. He wrote: "Downton Abbey glorifies an ordering of society that was hateful in reality. While the real-life aristocracy of Edwardian England lived in grandeur and expected other people to wait on them and attend to all their needs, the great majority of British people lived without sanitation, education or comfort."
Tuesday 6 September 2011
Two actors
Bill Nighy seems to be the darling of the critics. In a play by David Hare last week Bill Nighy played the part of a government official who is targeted for making a statement about the prime minister that could prove damning. Talk about playing the part smoothly! He wandered though the play like a man half asleep. Yet one TV critic wrote about how wonderful Nighy is and that when he, the critic, grows old he hoped he would grow old like Bill Nighy - old but young in character, old but still attractive to the ladies, old but with a good head of hair, old but able to wear a suit well. And so on. Nobody says how limited Nighy is; how he makes every part he plays into a Bill Nighy; how he languidly strolls around tiredly mouthing his lines as if he's afraid they might do some damage if he shouts them.
Compare him with Dominic West who was also recently in a play (serial, rather), The Hour, and who then appeared in a play (2 parter) about Fred West, the infamous murderer. In the first play Dominic West was your handsome, smooth, upper crust middle aged gentleman who had a beautiful wife but loved a female colleague. In the second he had transformed himself into a louse, a man with no morals but with a banter that made him almost likeable (something the Daily Mail complained about and they do have a point I suppose). Here was the Dominic West face but in two different guises: one, your cool ex-public school guy as handsome as Cary Grant; the other, a guy you might listen to but whose presence you'd get away from as fast as you could.
This was a masterly performance which Bill Nighy, likeable as he is, would not, could not play. I'm afraid that what he has become is a "character actor" capable of cameo roles while Dominic West is becoming something of a great actor.
Compare him with Dominic West who was also recently in a play (serial, rather), The Hour, and who then appeared in a play (2 parter) about Fred West, the infamous murderer. In the first play Dominic West was your handsome, smooth, upper crust middle aged gentleman who had a beautiful wife but loved a female colleague. In the second he had transformed himself into a louse, a man with no morals but with a banter that made him almost likeable (something the Daily Mail complained about and they do have a point I suppose). Here was the Dominic West face but in two different guises: one, your cool ex-public school guy as handsome as Cary Grant; the other, a guy you might listen to but whose presence you'd get away from as fast as you could.
This was a masterly performance which Bill Nighy, likeable as he is, would not, could not play. I'm afraid that what he has become is a "character actor" capable of cameo roles while Dominic West is becoming something of a great actor.
Saturday 3 September 2011
TV Plays
There were two plays on TV this week: one was superb, the other was OK. You'd have thought maybe that the superb one would have been "Page 8" by Sir David Hare but no, this was the OK one; the superb one was "Field of Blood" (first episode only so far). Why was this? After all David Hare is one of our great living playwrights - so people keep telling us. His plays have become school text books. He has written some famous plays like... er... can't recall a single title. Then he is a "sir" - surely they don't throw those honours around like smarties at a kids party. Well on the strength of "Page 8" maybe they do because whie it was watchable, though tiresome, it was a play that depended on one's point of view about politics. In short, it was a play which pointed a finger of guilt at Tony Blair. The Left, playwrights like Pinter and Hare, journalists like Polly Toynbee and the rest cannot forgive Blair for two things: winning a few elections with a policy that had abandoned Clause 4; joining Bush in the warmongers saloon and invading Iraq. While Blair isn't mentioned in "Page 8" he's there in spirit and in body in the shape of the Prime Minister in the play played by Ralph Fiennes (a nasty piece of work if ever there was one). You should, I believe, try to be fair minded to both sides of an argument when you are a playwright; Hare is one-sided and so he's preaching to the already convinced.
The strange thing about the comparisions of "Page 8" with "Field of Blood" was that though one would have expected the Hare play to have the best dialogue, it turned out that the Scottish play set in Glasgow really sparkled with wit and humour and vibrancy. Hare's dialogue was almost sermon-like: people kept repeating what had just been said, there was no life in the words, can't recall a single memorable line. In the other play there were great lines like (about a fattish girl junior journalist) "she's no stranger to a macaroon".
Can't wait for the second episode.
The strange thing about the comparisions of "Page 8" with "Field of Blood" was that though one would have expected the Hare play to have the best dialogue, it turned out that the Scottish play set in Glasgow really sparkled with wit and humour and vibrancy. Hare's dialogue was almost sermon-like: people kept repeating what had just been said, there was no life in the words, can't recall a single memorable line. In the other play there were great lines like (about a fattish girl junior journalist) "she's no stranger to a macaroon".
Can't wait for the second episode.
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