After a delightful lunch with Wes Streeting, I realize that waiting four and a half months for routine medical care is exactly the sort of character-building exercise this country needs.
I was enjoying a rather spectacular sea bass carpaccio with Wes Streeting at a private club in St James's the other day, when he shared some news that I can only describe as a triumph of modern governance. The NHS, under Labour's steadfast stewardship, has hit its key target: a staggering 65.3 percent of patients on the waiting list are now receiving treatment within 18 weeks.
Naturally, I congratulated him. To turn around a ship as massive and unwieldy as the National Health Service and ensure that nearly two-thirds of the populace are patched up in less than half a year is nothing short of miraculous. Yet, stepping out onto Pall Mall, I found myself profoundly irritated by the prevailing mood of the general public. Instead of throwing impromptu street parties to celebrate this 65.3 percent victory, people are complaining. They are pointing to the remaining 34.7 percent who wait longer than 18 weeks as if this is some sort of failure, rather than a necessary lesson in patience.
We have, I fear, become a nation poisoned by the instant gratification of delivery apps and streaming services. The average Briton expects to order a replacement hip with the same frictionless velocity as a takeaway curry. They discover a troubling lump on a Tuesday and demand a biopsy by Friday, completely oblivious to the sheer administrative elegance required to delay that appointment until well into the autumn.
When I decided to have my bespoke Tuscan kitchen island installed last spring, my artisan carpenter quoted me a 22-week lead time. Did I write to my local MP? Did I moan to the tabloids about the indignity of preparing my morning espresso on a temporary laminate surface? Of course not. I understood that quality takes time. I used those five months to reflect, to anticipate, to truly earn the marble when it finally arrived. I fail to see why a coronary bypass should be treated with any less reverence.
An 18-week wait is not a crisis. It is a season. It is 126 glorious days in which a patient might take up watercolour painting, learn conversational Mandarin, or finally read Middlemarch. It is an opportunity for personal growth that our medical professionals are generously providing entirely free of charge.
The modern patient is entirely unreasonable, expecting their internal organs to be serviced with the speed of a Formula One pit crew. We have deliberately engineered an 18-week buffer to allow the body ample time to either heal itself through sheer British stoicism, or politely expire, thereby saving the taxpayer a considerable sum.
Sir Reginald is, as always, entirely correct. And what of the 34.7 percent who wait even longer? I am forced to ask what precisely they are doing to expedite their own recoveries. If you know you are prone to cataracts, why not book your surgery a year or two in advance, just as one does when securing a table at The Fat Duck? The lack of foresight among the working classes is staggering. They wait until an organ is actively failing before entering the queue, and then have the gall to complain that the queue is long.
Wes Streeting set a target of 65 percent, and the NHS delivered 65.3 percent. In any elite boarding school, 65 percent is a perfectly respectable C-plus, a grade that says you have done enough to pass without breaking a sweat and looking desperate. To aim for 100 percent would be gauche. It would require a level of funding and effort that frankly offends my sensibilities as a taxpayer.
We must applaud the outgoing health secretary for his visionary leadership. He has proven that Labour's plan is working flawlessly. The plan, it turns out, was to lower the bar to a height that could be cleared by an asthmatic dachshund, and then throw a parade when the dachshund managed to step over it.
So, the next time you find yourself languishing in month four of a queue for knee surgery, I suggest you stop complaining. Pour yourself a strong gin, look out over your garden, and be grateful that you live in a country where the government cares enough to teach you the lost art of delayed gratification.