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Taking more responsibility for your health shouldn’t be such a clinical trial

'Surgery receptionists are remarkably busy and ludicrously mean in my experience': Shutterstock
'Surgery receptionists are remarkably busy and ludicrously mean in my experience': Shutterstock

I’m sitting in the reception of my south London doctor’s surgery with a wheelie suitcase having just arrived home after a trip to Milan fashion week and — LUCKILY! — I’m just in time to collect a new urine sample pot for my daughter, before surgery closes. Talk about a holiday present!

I don’t go inside the actual waiting room because although my exterior conveys a vibey, deeply relaxed disposition, I’m seriously uptight about germs and am of the firm belief that if I spend more than a minute in a poorly ventilated, overheated holding pen with 10 per cent timewasters and 90 per cent sick people, I’m going to get ill.

So I’m loitering in the buggy zone, by the window, recalling the time when I’d bring a bottle of Limoncello back from Milan instead of a piss pot; just waiting, watching, and wondering how the clerical staff here are going to find the time to screen patients as part of the new “care navigators” scheme devised by the NHS. In a bid to reduce avoidable appointments and free up doctors’ time, clerical staff will now be able to make the call as to whether you get to see a doctor, or a physio, for example, instead.

Surgery receptionists are remarkably busy and ludicrously mean in my experience — I mean, comically so, at times. They are curt, unforgiving and truculent — and have, moreover, ultimate clout, which they wield like medical magnates. This new initiative will hand even more power to the front desk.

I’ve been at the mercy of many a savage receptionist. There’s the one at this surgery who behaves as though she discovered penicillin and invented “please hold”, and she once made me cry when I had a temperature of 39 degrees — I was basically dead.

The new “care navigator” scheme is being trialled in London. And I don’t imagine the receptionists are tripping over themselves to add to their workload any more than I want to speak to someone not medically qualified. In fact, I haven’t come across a receptionist in the past 10 years who is not at the edge of their job description.

In the 20 minutes I’m standing here waiting, I witness enough emotion to floor Kim Jong-un. These receptionists are medics, social workers, friends, enemies, translators and mediators. They want to be on the side of the patients but are juggling resources, dealing with timewasters, assessing varying degrees of sickness, dealing with the mentally impaired and navigating the surgery hierarchy. The brusqueness is just the self-preservation that goes with this emotionally draining territory.

A queue of people is also waiting — first in line a gobby mum with two boys with expensive trainers and poor attitudes who is abusive to the women behind the desk; next, two men, one elderly, one not — the former convinced he is dying and borderline senile; after them, a smiling mum here to book her sweet new baby into the baby clinic; and then a teary lady who has arrived to collect the prescription of her very sick husband.

Yes, we need, as Jeremy Hunt says, to “square the circle if we are to have a fantastic NHS” — but adding another layer of management, with all the demands that go with it, is just putting a plaster over the problem.

Promoting a message of self-care, and addressing why so many people go to the doctor when they don’t need to, is the answer. What’s wrong with many of them? I’ll tell you — and it’s an epidemic. The public largely see their health as the doctors’ problem rather than their own, and now it’s the receptionist’s responsibility too.

Even the hottest couples end up staring at their phones

Milan Fashion Week and I am sitting with London PR empresario Daniel Marks (gatekeeper to many a fashion icon including Donatella Versace) in a tiny, noisy Italian (so brightly lit, I can see my own pores in the reflection of his glasses). Through the door, heading for the next-door table walk two of the most beautiful people on the planet.

Normally, I wouldn’t write about this. Neither of them are “on” and are out to enjoy a quiet meal, but this isn’t intrusive and it’s not unkind; it’s more about me than them. The blonde supermodel, Amber Valletta (famous for Chanel campaigns and Vogue covers), and her hunky boyfriend, the type of gently muscular guy that looks inspiring in a hoodie and jeans, take their seats. He has a top knot, but it’s less try-hard trendy and more: “What would Amber hold on to if I didn’t have this hair?” Anyway, I digress. The point is that they walked into the room and the mood changed. It would’ve been impossible for the room to be any brighter (apparently Italians like their restaurants bright so they can be seen) and this duo were impossible to miss. The atmosphere went a bit cutlery-chiming-on-porcelain as Amber’s cheekbones sliced through thin air.

Later, when I stopped pretending to be casual, I noticed that they had both taken out their phones and started to scroll and scroll. And text. For ages. Despite being infinitely kissable, even these two Darwinian winners were FIS (face in screens), just like me and my boyfriend at dinner on our Thursday attempts at date night. Hurrah! They too would rather look at their fake lives on a screen than live their real ones. Slightly reassuring for someone whose iPhone says I’ve spent eight hours on it in the past week alone.

* Ms Markle, you’re a marvel. I was an earlier adopter of Suits and loved your smile, immaculate officewear and tasteful manicures. Your choice in loungewear — chunky knits and soft skinny jeans, mainly — had me covetous and you’re basically the same IRL. Now that Harmeg are an official item (I know, it doesn’t quite work), I’m just putting it out there — Meg, need someone to show you around town? I’m in.