Medical receptionists are a modern-day Medusa in my book. Most could turn you to stone with just a raised eyebrow. Not that I blame them because they’ve been assigned that most difficult of all roles - gatekeepers to health services which as we all know are not really interested in the welfare of their patients.
A chance encounter with Age UK at my local sports centre set me off on a path to obtain a Blue Badge disabled parking permit that I might be able to use when ferrying my elderly mother to and from her hospital appointments.
Mother, now approaching her 90th year, has lost the ability to walk any great distance. Her gait resembling a hot shoe shuffle rather than a striding step means that even the shortest journeys can seem like an epic quest worthy of Hobbits. Add to that mix an addled brain plus eyesight that’s one pup short of a guide dog, you can begin to understand why I thought a Blue Badge might have been the answer to my parking prayers.
Blue Badge? I’m beginning to realise it would be easier to get hold of a blue badger than one of these permits.
After a lengthy phone call with the local council to request a paper application form to kick start the process, it became clear that navigating the bureaucratic Blue Badge labyrinth was not going to be as easy as the tabloids make out because dearest mother is neither registered disabled nor claims any welfare benefits. These two trump cards unlock the magic parking portal. Blue Badge nirvana.
For those mere mortals not fortunate enough to fall into these two categories, an evidence-based application process must be pursued.
Exhibit 1, your Honour, a certificate of visual impairment. Exhibit 2 – medical evidence of mobility or other health related issues. Hang on, where’s Exhibit 2? Summon the general practitioner to the witness stand.
And so, I find myself standing in the dock at the doctor’s surgery with my carefully curated ‘evidence’ pack to ask for medical evidence to support my Blue Badge application. Enter Medusa.
I set out my opening statement in a respectful and friendly tone:
‘Hello (smile). I emailed a few weeks ago regarding a Blue Badge application and was told to bring my form to the surgery so you could help me pull it together.’
‘WE DON’T DO THAT HERE.’ snapped the super-officious mythical monster.
‘But I need medical evidence to confirm mum’s mobility issues.’ I tentatively ventured instantly realising I should have called Rumpole of the Bailey to handle my case rather than represent myself.
‘Well, we don’t do that.’ She insisted rather authoritatively as if I’d dared to ask her to pop a leech onto my chest in a bid to rid me of this hacking cough that’s set up a blockade of the lungs in Trumpian fashion.
‘Can’t I get a letter or something from the doctor to include with my form?’ I persisted.
‘I’ll ask but the doctor won’t normally do that.’ She growled almost relenting but not quite ready to give up her bone.
‘Okay. How about I leave my evidence pack with you to show one of your colleagues? If you really can’t help then I’ll come back to collect it later.’ My closing argument as I stop myself reaching into my handbag for a compact mirror so I can turn her to stone with her own reflection.
I appreciate there are blaggers out there who have somehow miraculously managed to bagsie a Blue Badge purely because they are too idle to walk a few steps to the supermarket and now local authorities have to tighten the screws.
Here’s what Doctor Google has to say about these things:
Blue Badge parking permits in England have reached a record 3.07 million, marking an 8% rise year-on-year to over 5% of the population. Driven by a 2019 expansion of eligibility criteria to include "hidden" disabilities, this surge has prompted councils to crack down on rampant misuse and theft.
Apparently Blue Badge fraud costs the nation over £46 million a year according to the AA so it’s no wonder you have to jump through so many hoops to get one although it does feel a tad unfair that the evidence-based process is not applied equally to all applicants in a bid to weed out those who don’t really need one.
In the meantime, time to dig out those dancing pumps Mother as we need to sand dance down to the Eye Hospital again. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.
‘WE DON’T DO THAT HERE.’ snapped the super-officious mythical monster.
‘But I need medical evidence to confirm mum’s mobility issues.’ I tentatively ventured instantly realising I should have called Rumpole of the Bailey to handle my case rather than represent myself.
‘Well, we don’t do that.’ She insisted rather authoritatively as if I’d dared to ask her to pop a leech onto my chest in a bid to rid me of this hacking cough that’s set up a blockade of the lungs in Trumpian fashion.
‘Can’t I get a letter or something from the doctor to include with my form?’ I persisted.
‘I’ll ask but the doctor won’t normally do that.’ She growled almost relenting but not quite ready to give up her bone.
‘Okay. How about I leave my evidence pack with you to show one of your colleagues? If you really can’t help then I’ll come back to collect it later.’ My closing argument as I stop myself reaching into my handbag for a compact mirror so I can turn her to stone with her own reflection.
I appreciate there are blaggers out there who have somehow miraculously managed to bagsie a Blue Badge purely because they are too idle to walk a few steps to the supermarket and now local authorities have to tighten the screws.
Here’s what Doctor Google has to say about these things:
Blue Badge parking permits in England have reached a record 3.07 million, marking an 8% rise year-on-year to over 5% of the population. Driven by a 2019 expansion of eligibility criteria to include "hidden" disabilities, this surge has prompted councils to crack down on rampant misuse and theft.
Apparently Blue Badge fraud costs the nation over £46 million a year according to the AA so it’s no wonder you have to jump through so many hoops to get one although it does feel a tad unfair that the evidence-based process is not applied equally to all applicants in a bid to weed out those who don’t really need one.
In the meantime, time to dig out those dancing pumps Mother as we need to sand dance down to the Eye Hospital again. Shuffle. Shuffle. Shuffle.

