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So I am late posting this, very late and part of the reason was a very unhelpful encounter with my GP surgery. Can’t help thinking of Pixie Madison, now a writer and performer for Cardboard Citizens, who famously regaled us, more than once with, “I’ve only got one joke… What’s the definition of care in the community?” Big pause. “Here’s a ticket to Brixton.”
Well, he had a point if my experience is anything to go by…. The details of my recent encounter with community care I’ll leave ‘til the end for anyone who experiences mental health issues or knows anyone that does, see after the fun stuff…
The month began with an inspiring reading from Stav Poleg for the launch of her book The City which took place on Zoom 6th April.
The start of the month also saw my first Brixton night out in soooo long hosted by Jack Blackburn and the Conformists with special guest Michael Groce.
Really good to see so many familiar faces though tidy reminder that what looks like not-a-lot-of-wine is in fact exactly that – this fashion for mad sized glasses!
Held at the Brixton Art Club it was great but a bit of a stimulation overload experience with art, sound and familiar faces all at once. I reckon this is a post lockdown or post – but not really post – covid effect or something… Here’s some grainy pics.
I’ve been following a series of events by Dear Politicians including Ecopoetry and the movement on 13th April which you can catch up here
and How to write Ecopoetry on the 20th April here
While Writers Rebel presented a star studded showcase outside Tate Britain on the 15th April with contributions from Lemn Sissay, Zena Edwards, Inua Ellams, Patience Agbabi, Sarah Winman, Greg Norminton, Joe Dunthorne, Maggie Gee, Nikita Gill and Courttia Newland as well as Monique Roffey and Alex Lockwood. Catch it all here
On a personal note had a trip to British museum with a friend’s kids. Got to see some of the plundered treasures from around the world. It’s a bit unnerving to think probably most of this stuff is stolen…
Headed to the Egyptian section to find the mummies. That was the objective since the Natural History Musuem that had promised dinosaur bones, the first choice, was all booked up. I was a bit perturbed that my friend’s son spent a quite a lot of time saying, Re: big tombs, “I’m bored.” Re: hieroglyphics, “Boring!” Re: ancient bones, “That’s not scary!” Re: ancient skeletons with skin on them, “Not scary at all.”
I was wondering where this desire or expectation “to be scared” came from and later remembered a convo before getting the lift. Child, “I’m not scared.” Me, “Well you might be if we leave you here overnight and everything comes to life.” (Ooooh, What was I thinking ?!) Child, “I could live here.” Me, “Yes, you’re quite small, you probably could.”
On the way out I asked, “Was there anything you liked?” Emphatic reply, “The mummies!!” Phew! Later his mum commended me on making abandonment seem exciting when I told her about the convo at the lift!
But honestly do they need to keep ALL that stuff? Much of it was duplicates, particularly the urns (in the Greek section we passed through.) I mean how many urns do you need to make the point?
After we sat in Bloomsbury Square while I pondered the Bloomsbury Group; their antiwar activity pre 1914, their artist legacy and nurturing of young artists in the 1920’s… wondering if my feel now touched the same grass, the same ground.
Also had a brief sojourn in Hastings over the bank holiday then when I got back began the unholy STRESS of getting a repeat prescription, for my mood meds, before they ran out – this is the mental health bit – but first a picture of a beach of daffodils…
This s t r e s s happens every two months to varying degrees and in varying forms when it’s time to get a new prescription. It’s not like this is a new condition; I was diagnosed bipolar around 1995 but of course the condition varies and my ability to manage it varies though these days I’m fairly stable.
I’m not going to go into ALL the gritty details of this particular rigmarole, it would take too long. Suffice it to say at the third call (average wait each time 45 mins) abandoning any attempt at calm or courtesy, when told, “I can’t tell you if the doctor has made it up or not,” I said, “That is not acceptable!” And promptly hung up. Then voila get a call back ten minutes later, “Your prescription is ready. The doctor has sent it to the pharmacy.” Just as I was penning a complaint to the practice manager.
I say all this because I am in no doubt I am alone in experiencing these kind of difficulties. The NHS is in crisis. What can I say? This experience would suggest get your strop on. Get mad. Yet thats not the answer. All I can suggest is the following for any encounters with GP surgeries or mental health professionals:-
Write down what you need to say before you call (or attend an appointment.) Make notes of how you feel if necessary or appropriate. If you are patronised, as I have been in the past, remind them the call is being recorded and the requirement of courtesy applies to them too.
Remind them you are a vulnerable patient. If you are feeling particularly fragile ask someone else to call (or accompany you.) Know their policies and know you are entitled to decent treatment. Keep a record of what happened, where and when in case you need to make a complaint.
Sooooooooooo
#amreading Blood Relatives by Steven Alcock, The Sagas of Ragnar Lothbrok, and Gail McConnell’s The Sun is Open
#amwriting about the remarkable beings ficaria verna, also known as pilewort or the lesser celandine.
A blog post by Anne Enith Cooper
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