Appointment with confusion down at the surgery...

PAV’S PATCH:

JUST when you think you’ve come to terms with the latest innovation in customer service — having to listen to about a dozen lists before you can get through to the person you want on the phone; hanging on forever, or wondering how you ever got through to someone who doesn’t seem to speak English — they always come up with something new to torture you.

I went to the GP’s surgery recently. But gone are the days when you simply told the receptionist you had an appointment with Dr Doolittle.

Now, you have to log in using a computer screen. Okay, it didn’t cause me too much trouble but I wonder how people like my late mother go on.

Believe me, I’m no dinosaur. I love computers. I simply wonder how a computer screen is faster than speaking to someone who then ticks you off in a book or whatever.

I must also confess that the GP appointments system leaves me utterly baffled. After undergoing my blood test, I asked to make an appointment with my doctor — it was a Tuesday morning.

“Sorry, we’ve only got 48-hour appointments left. You’ll have to call on Friday morning and we’ll see what we can do.”

Now, can you work that one out, because I genuinely can’t? Perhaps while our wonderful politicians were pontificating about balanced parliaments and electoral reform they might have considered something that really matters to us, the public, like getting to see a doctor or dentist. There again, I imagine they all go private.

Another thing that has got to me lately is identification. Because my younger son got only £1.50 interest on his savings I decided to move his money. Banking made easy? You have got to be joking.

I was told my utility bill was too old. So I explained that I’m on paperless billing — save the environment and all that. “I’ll bring in a print-out,” I offered. “Sorry sir, we don’t accept those.”

“How about my works identity card. It has my picture on, see.” “Nope. It says you’re called Mike rather than Michael.”

“Medical card?” “Only for children.” “Polling card?” “Not acceptable.” My driving licence then.

“That’s got a picture too and it says Michael” “Sorry again sir. It’s got your old address on.”

At that point I did storm out. However, after thinking about the matter for an hour or two I decided not to cut off my nose to spite my face and returned to eat humble pie. The things I’ll do just to get a few extra pence of interest for my son.