Arrrrrrrrr!

It should concern everyone that I am actually kind of touched by this. Fine, I've never really done much participation in International Talk Like a Pirate Day, but what the hell. Thanks, commonpeople.

In other news, it becomes clear to me that unless I know exactly what I'm getting people, bookstores are not a place in which I should go Christmas shopping. I start browing for the perfect gift for Toos or Claire and come out with a paperback copy of Gray's Anatomy, a book of Christopher Fowler's short stories and the novel upon which M*A*S*H was based. I don't think either of them would want those as much as I do (well, maybe Claire with the Christopher Fowler, but I'm not sure). Damn it all, I really need to focus here. I have an hour or so after work tomorrow in which to do some shopping before the Thank God It's Over party that the London NaNoWriMo participants are having, but still, when I go out shopping for Christmas presents, it might be nice if I bought, I don't know, Christmas presents. For someone other than me.

Then again, today's been hell so maybe I owe myself a little bit of a treat. I can't wait to get home. I can't decide whether I should do some writing or just plain collapse. On the one hand, I've been nudged into a swashbuckling sort of mood and there's also this short story kicking around in the back of my head that not even the not-so-gentle interrogations of cholten99 could frustrate me out of. On the other hand ... OMGSOTIRED!

Another letter that will never be sent.

Dear ward clerk,

A patient is due into your ward tomorrow morning. You cannot go hunting for the notes tomorrow morning as you will be away. You are affronted by the fact that, despite the fact that I typed the last letter on this patient, I do not have the notes. You apparently think it's my fault that my consultant did not bring them forth, or I'm just lying to spite you. You're a moron.

1) So you can't locate these files tomorrow morning. You have minions. Let them bloody do it if you like last-minute.

2) Speaking of last-minute, I would point out that it's an hour or so from close of play for most of us. If you had the organisational skills of a penguin on meths, you'd have started looking for those goddamn files hours ago.

3) I would also point out that it's a bit pointless to ring my consultant at his Harley Street practice to enquire as to where a set of NHS hospital notes are. If he knew where he had mislaid them, he would not have mislaid them, and if he had not mislaid them, they would be in my to-be-filed pile by now. The idea that the man will suddenly be able to remember where he left those notes just because you're griping at him, while a nice little pipe dream, is just that -- a pipe dream. But sure, I will give you the number of his Harley Street secretary because if you think I'm giving you his mobile number, you're on crack.

4) Don't be a bitch and do not interrupt me while I'm trying to help you. If you listen, sometimes you hear helpful things. If you don't, you're utterly fucked; if you can't find those notes, you'll need these letters that I have sitting here waiting for you. I also might have suggested that you a) check the clinic yourself or b) ring the other hospital, where the patient has further treatment, as they might have requested that notes be sent straight back to them.

5) In the same vein, don't treat this as some kind of personal betrayal. For the first time ever, I don't have a set of notes you think I should have or know where you can find them. It's not deliberate, for fuck's sake. Get over yourself.

6) Don't make a DMS connection failure sound like my fault. It's not that I wouldn't print off those goddamn letters for you; it was that I literally couldn't. I fixed that in fairly short order, actually, once I had a minute without you bitching in my ear.

In short, do not fuck with me. I am very much not in the mood.

Regards,
Secretary to some fairly disorganised consultants and doing quite well regardless, thanks.