I have now been waiting for half an hour in the drop in clinic for children at the Whittington hospital in north London. Yet to see a doctor or nurse, despite a potentially dangeous diagnosis.
I’m used to this place by now. Both my children were born here and since then we’ve had our fair share of races to A and E at the dead of night. I have always found the staff here incredibly professional and reassuring despite the immense pressure and grim working conditions.
I know the bewildering layout of this place by now, even when the escalators or the lifts aren’t working. When they are, the floors aren’t identified by anything as sensible as numbers but by a section of exposed wiring in one case or a hanging piece of polystyrene in another.
But they have now opened up a new entrance, built under PFI and it does look great, if you like airport architecture. There’s a beautiful new McColl’s newsagents and a swanky food outlet. But the rest of the hospital is still the same old mess. As I look up from writing this, I realise that the waiting room is now full, standing room only. And we still have not seen a nurse or a doctor.
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