Three years ago today (or tomorrow as I’m writing this yesterday) a junior doctor walked into an open ward, sat down on a sun drenched windowsill and told me my wife was going to die.  Soon.

In 6 – 8 weeks to be exact.  Obviously he told her as well but as he’d brought along the scans that showed there were four tumours on her brain, it explained why she had no idea what he was talking about.  The actual oncologist couldn’t be bothered coming up one flight of stairs to tell us.  She left it to the office junior.

That was the culmination of 12 months of misdiagnosis, mistreatment and malpractice by our beloved #nhs #heroes

Actually, if you take it back to the surgeon who’d crippled her during routine surgery, then lied about for it 10 months with the full complicity of his colleagues then it was 7 years.

So I haven’t applauded the NHS during the recent round of flu that’s not swept the nation. Because from nurses to specialists I’d struggle to need the fingers on one hand to count the ones who knew what they were doing.

I could fill a hundred pages with stories of things they got up to from the pensioner with casts on both arms who had her lunch put down on a tray in front of her. And when I pointed out to a nurse that she would have a wee bit trouble eating it all I got was a shrug and “no my job”.

Or the day that a patient had the only explosive diarrhea I’ve ever seen (after the event) in a toilet shared by eight patients. But the cleaners were away for the day so after she rang the emergency bell the nurses carried her, shit and all, and put her back in bed. And walked away.

But ultimately, they killed my wife. So they can fucking do one.

Here she is when I first met her and, 20 years later, after they’d crippled her. My Lindy.