SPANISH NHS

This blog would be incomplete without a few words about national health services but today I'm reporting on those experienced from the other side of the pond.

I wish it had been Tapas Tuesday yesterday but instead I spent the day accompanying the Ancient Mariner to a plethora of institutions as his trusty ‘consigliere’, personal shopper, carer and fellow churro muncher.

He’d found a few gold doubloons languishing at the bottom of his treasure chest and we had one of those rare personal father/daughter moments trading memories of bygone days between churro dunks into our coffees. A moment to be cherished for sure.

Churros, like kebabs always taste fabulous at the time but lead to regrets or belly ache later on. For someone with no gallbladder, eating greasy fried dough is perhaps not the most sensible thing to do but hey, when in Spain …

Fortified by our fried feast, we headed off to the local health hub/clinic which doubles up as both a doctor’s surgery and mini A&E department. 

Wes, I hope you are reading this post as this is how community health hubs should operate, not the poxy runaround you get when you need to visit a GP.

A large poster on the main entrance informed all visitors that compulsory facemasks were in operation and a security guard posted nearby was there to ensure you wore one. No face covering, no entry to the building simple as that. Believe me, you don’t want to argue with Spanish security personnel they look ferocious even with a facemask on! I think it’s those imposing dark eyebrows.

Having gotten through Checkpoint Carlos, you grab a ticket with a number on it rather like you used to do at supermarket deli counters of old or at McDonalds then wait to be called to the front desk. Ten numbers in front of us but the girls rattled through them fairly quickly.

Once your golden ticket number is called, you state your case to the jolly receptionist and present your national identity card. All health records are stored on their computer system using your unique DNI number (documento nacional de identidad or national identity document to us Brits). This card validates that you are eligible to use medical services provided.

On completing this check, your request is triaged on site. None of this online malarkey. Depending on your requirements it’s either a trip to another part of the building or a simple instruction to visit one of the local pharmacies. I counted at least 3 pharmacies within yards of the clinic.

All we wanted was a repeat prescription – no forms to fill in or online request to struggle with. The receptionist raises the prescription request there and then, wings it over to the doctor electronically who then authorises it and pings it straight over to the pharmacy. Medication ready to collect later on in the day or the following morning. No waiting around for days to get new meds.

Like the UK, the surgery was predominantly filled with older folk but unlike the UK, not everyone had a smartphone glued to their hand because all those techno-barriers that exist in Britain were not in evidence since the surgery staff handled it all for you. Unlike a lot of UK GP surgeries, customer service was given with a SMILE and a bit of friendly chit chat making you feel welcomed instead of a great inconvenience.

This morning at the pharmacy, I handed Mum’s national ID card to the pharmacist who stuck it into an electronic card reader gadget that told them who it was for and what had been prescribed. Interestingly, the Spanish word for prescription is ‘receta’ which also translates as recipe when cooking. There’s no third degree at the counter demanding dates of birth, postcodes or any other info as all of that is conveniently accessible at the touch of a button via the ID card. Just as well as my Spanish is a bit ropey when it comes to medical terminology.

Our NHS certainly has a lot to learn from other countries. Maybe Wes Streeting could personally look in on a few foreign health hubs to see how they do it effectively and No ID Here Keir should definitely re-consider the benefits to the health service of having national identity cards.

WOT NO CHURROS?

For those of you out there thinking I’m loitering in some Spanish taverna quaffing San Miguel at 10 am then sizzling my wobbly bits on a sandy beach, I can assure you that is as far removed from reality as Donald Trump buying Scotland for its North Sea oil and gas reserves. OMG I hope I haven’t given him any ideas…

In the words of the immortal Godfather, Don Corleone - it’s not personal, it’s strictly business. It’s not even my own business but that of the Ancient Mariner who after a decade of nagging has finally decided to get his foreign affairs ship shape before heading off to Davy Jones locker.

I’d forgotten just how hard the single beds were in my old childhood bedroom. Imagine sleeping on a granite outcrop covered by a few flimsy sheets of loo roll. Three bedspreads heaped onto a couple of moth-eaten prehistoric blankets later I finally managed to thaw out for some shut eye.

Only I’d also forgotten that mother masquerades as a wrinkly vampire watching TV until the wee hours. No problem with that except she’s almost as deaf as a post and even three bedspreads plus a closed door failed to tone down the volume. This does not bode well for the week ahead.

Alone in a house with two old dears that struggle to walk a hundred yards to the loo is going to mean no churros for yours truly. I’ll be that saddo tourist sitting alone in a corner table nursing a cup of hot chocolate slowly savouring the taste of deep-fried greasy churros which although not great for anyone’s waistline are such a treat that it’s almost a religious pilgrimage when visiting Spain.

It’s now just a case of picking the right moment to pop off for an early morning stroll down to a local churro emporium.

RUDE

There’s rude and then there’s f*****g rude. Old lady, you may be a decade older than me but barging past then sticking your suitcase in my face is just NOT OKAY!

Yesterday’s early morning departure to Malaga from Bournemouth was evidence of the rich tapestry of peasant life – the winter fuel allowancers, the would-be benefit claimants and kids seemingly of school age who inexplicably won’t be ticked as present on Monday’s register.

Pensioner poverty my arse! I suppose you’ll be telling me next that all these oldies spent all summer living off beans on toast so they could afford to warm their old bones in the winter sun. Yeah, I can clearly see where all my taxes are going. Still, at least they won’t be clogging up NHS hospitals with all those health issues exacerbated by sub-zero cold or damp.

‘Algo que declarar? (anything to declare?)’ said the officious Spanish copper wielding a lethal looking stamper in the Border Control kiosk, ready to crush any potential narco-terrorists with a resounding click.

‘Let me see’ I squeaked from behind my guinea-pig face mask, a must for all travellers on Covid-air. 

‘Hands up I did let off a few silent trouser trumps at 10,000 miles high, most likely the result of post traumatic stress following a Samsonite facial administered by the Dowager dragon. UK temperatures are cold enough to freeze the tail off a shithouse rat and the economy is going to need more than a defibrillator to jolt it back to life’.

‘You might also want a quiet word with that bald bloke over there in the grubby grey tracky bottoms as I think he took an almighty crap over Cordoba which has probably created an international incident beyond diplomacy that now requires forcible action to resolve. Otherwise, nope. Nothing of note to declare’.

Slowly morphing into my Spanish alter ego – Juana Sheet in Malaga’s midday sun, I board the bus to El Rincon sweating like a pig in polar thermals. The sun is shining, the sea is sparkling, the bus is full of happy chatter which of course, I can auto-tune into using the Spanish half of my brain – there are some advantages to speaking a foreign language you know.

I relax back into the padded seat and breathe a huge sigh of relief. Life is good. Viva Malaga!

NEW YEAR, NEW HORIZONS

Well that's another year rubbed off life’s scratchcard.  

Funny how time seems to drag on in your middle years yet speeds up in your later ones.  Is there a name for this wondrous phenomenon?  Or is this just a sign of old age?  After all, 12 months is still 12 months.  Right? 

There’s nothing pretty special about 2026 except for the fact I’ve arrived at 63.  

If longevity statistics for women are anything to go by then I only have around 20 years left on the planet provided no other unexpected visitors turn up – like Death.  I’m not hoping to see the Grim Reaper for a few years yet but when I do, I hope he’s like the Death featured in Terry Pratchett novels; astride a white horse called Binky and speaking in CAPITALS.  

This time last year, I was throwing together my list of three goals to accomplish.  Naturally, they all revolved around the house – fixing this, replacing that or smashing out the other.  At sixty-three, there’s got to be more to life than DIY so this year’s resolution will be like nothing before.  

After 45 years of spreadsheets, putting up with work numpties and clacking away on office keyboards, I’ve finally decided to hang up my working gloves to venture off into the world of early retirement.  So long suckers and thanks for all the fish, as that’s what decades in finance has given me – one great haddock! 

My mind’s made up.  All that’s needed now is an exit date but that too has already been added to the kitchen calendar.  When the clock’s next change, I’ll be springing forward to begin writing the final chapter of life.  

Not this blog though.  No final cyber chapters yet for you lot – there’s still another 20 years of this nonsense to publish!