Night 4

Tonight's been surprisingly quiet for a Monday. It's been relatively easy-going, but one should not count those little chicks before they hatch. By the end of it though, I'd be a little more than halfway through my last set of medical night on-calls. And next week will bring with it the 'wonderful' task of having to complete the application forms for my Specialist Training.

Having just browsed said forms, I can't say I'm terribly thrilled of the prospect of filling up the numerous empty boxes with words, that are more often than not, going to be picked up from the sky. I mean e.g., how exactly am I going to sell myself if I'm meant to explain how I've made a difference in a patient's life? Isn't that something that you're meant to be doing everyday? Some brilliant chap is bound to make up some sob story about how he altered the course of civilisation but I can't of anything just yet.

I should probably take the opportunity to think about the form whilst I'm free instead of blogging. I think better at night anyway. Usually.

Last night was horrible though; not because of the workload per se but it was more to do with the idiocy that I had to contend myself with. The bed managers (and NHS managers in general) are so *expletive deleted* incompetent at times that one wonders why more patients aren't dead. It's pisses me off that the core problems (i.e. we need a bigger place with more staff) aren't addressed and money is poured elsewhere like nobody's business.

That's the thing with a district hospital though - you don't get as many trainees around. The upshot of this is the fact that you get the opportunity to do more things if you're bothered. But unfortunately that's not always the case. I'm meant to have a chat with the F1s sometime over the next few weeks, and I will have the unfortunate task of whipping some of them into shape.

Sigh... all I ask is for common sense to prevail...