 My doctor has just phoned to chat through some blood test results. I had already seen them via the medical records section of the health app on my phone, but he wanted to talk with me directly. The appointment was made for 10.30. He phoned at 12.50. He knows that I know he may well have faced all kinds of unexpected and urgent queries this morning and had to make potentially life-changing decisions regarding his other patients. He is, of course, an expert, but also friendly and empathetic. I was pleased that he still wanted to talk to me in person, not just relying on the technology to supply the information correctly and promptly in tandem with my desire to seek it out directly and knowing how to do so. At my age, I imagine the latter two requirements might not always be so reliable! On Sunday evenings, when I was a little boy, we used to gather around the television to watch Dr Finlay’s Casebook. I loved the uplifting music as the fictional Scottish town of Tannochbrae came into view. Mysteries of the medical profession were dealt with by experts who were also friendly and empathetic (well, maybe a bit craggy occasionally), and the stories always had happy endings - as required by BBC guidelines at the time, and timeless, unwritten rules of successful fiction. Doctors Finlay, Cameron and Snoddie rarely had to interact with such non-medical technology as the house telephone, which they left to their far more than capable housekeeper, Janet. I have been very lucky to have a Janet in my life for almost 40 years, who is also called Michelle. Her hair isn't white and she isn't Scottish, but she keeps everything up and running - including me! The doctors were mobile, but didn’t hide behind handsets; imparted knowledge from the stored information in their memories, made decisions based on their own brains’ ability to quickly process information. Their very presence was reassuring. I was only 11 years old when the series finished and, like the ubiquitous doctors in bow ties and waistcoats from Sunday afternoon matinees who were sent for in the middle of dark nights lit by thunderstorms, carrying impossibly large medical bags, faded into black and white. I have embraced new technology in every period of my life since then. As a writer, the online tools available to me today for information searching, grammar checking and marketing improvements run happily alongside the hundreds of books sitting on my shelves, still offering guidance and confirmation that I am on the right track. My doctor told me I was on the right track this morning. Sometimes, just hearing someone say the words is as important as the words themselves, isn’t it? Tannochbrae will never come back; I won’t ever be 11 again. But, if under-resourced, overworked NHS doctors still value friendliness and empathy as much as the technology we all use to get answers these days, the question has to be: why doesn’t everybody else?
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