Before my Friday Fictioneer submission, a rant: I’ve just spent five days in an NHS hospital. Not quite a five star hotel, maybe not even three, but efficient, caring, and a good place to be if you’ve got a broken hip. Shortly before discharge I learnt that a lot of the nurses and therapists are on zero hours contracts – after all their training they do not have job security and they are not receiving a regular steady income. No wonder there’s such a high level of resignations and overwork and stress amongst those who remain.
As a large chunk of the hospital workforce is made up of immigrants and migrant workers, we should remind ourselves that the government is talking about introducing rules that would mitigate against lower-waged workers entering the country. So just who is going to do the work when that happens?
End of rant; here’s my story:
The Prime Minister was handed a silver spade for the cutting-the-turf ceremony. His Wellingtons looked smart enough for the Bullingdon Club.
“Big smiles,” called out the photographers. “Over here,” pleaded a camera man.
His make-up girl applied a bit of powder, smoothed over his hair. The spin doctor chatted casually to a pack of editors.
A scruffy young man with old-fashioned notebook and pen called out, “Another new hospital for the NHS, sir?”
Everyone looked aghast.
The PM smirked. “No, you idiot, I’m digging its grave. Who wants a public health system when there are fat profits to be made?”
Written in response to the weekly 100 word challenge put out by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers, to be found here.