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At the heart of general practice since 1960

007 reasons to keep your records secret

What with the new Bond movie out and PCTs threatening to report GPs to MI5, Copperfield puts himself in Sir Ian Fleming's shows and imagines the scene in Drs Drax, Goldfinger and Bloefeld's surgery as 007 pays a visit to discuss 'security'.

What with the new Bond movie out and PCTs threatening to report GPs to MI5, Copperfield puts himself in Sir Ian Fleming's shows and imagines the scene in Drs Drax, Goldfinger and Bloefeld's surgery as 007 pays a visit to discuss 'security'.



The names on the brass plate outside the surgery door seemed oddly familiar.

"Dr Drax, Dr Goldfinger and Dr Blofeld. Consultations by appointment. Closed Thursday afternoon."

I took my place in a line of patients that snaked across a drab grey vinyl floor. Fluorescent lights hummed and crackled overhead as I reached the front of the queue. "My name is Bond, James Bond. I'm from IT and I have an appointment to see the Practice Manager."

She looked me up and down with the well practiced sneer that she usually reserved for junkies who'd "lost" their prescription for the second time in a month.

"I'll tell her that you're here, sit down." I wedged myself into a narrow seat fastened to the wall opposite and made a mental note to take up the offer of discounted membership at the Civil Service gym.

Half an hour later I was trying to get comfortable on an office chair that had seen better days. The coffee was weak, luke warm and powdery.

I glanced at the nameplate on the desk in front of me, "Rosa Klebb". Such a pretty name.

"It's like this" I began, "as a result of the recent scandals involving the loss of confidential data the Trust have been ordered to enforce the Government's information governance standards, how can I put this, a little more stringently."

"Ordered by whom?" she asked as she brushed a mangy looking Persian cat off her lap on to a threadbare IKEA killim that was undoubtedly positioned to cover a hole in a tired piece of contract cord carpeting.

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information, but..." and I paused here for effect, "you may be sure that they are influential people." I stressed the word ‘influential'.

"And suppose we refuse to play along with these charades? Suppose we suggest that the Government puts its own house in order before persecuting those at the coal face? The Ministry of Defence admits that seven hundred and fifty laptop computers have gone missing from their offices. Do they expect us to believe that they contained nothing more important than some lovesick squaddies' Facebook contacts?"

"The computer records of a hundred and sixty thousand paediatric clinic patients in north London are still missing, even though the courier has a signed docket confirming delivery of a hard disk to the correct address. On the Isle of Wight, thirty eight thousand medical records have been misplaced – that's a quarter of the island's population, Mr Bond, twenty-five percent! Yet you have the audacity to insist that we comply with your pathetic rulings. We have no need of them, Mr Bond, no need at all."

"If you elect not to co-operate, Mrs Klebb, then my superiors might make life very difficult for you. We could make adherence to the regulations a contractual obligation. Or, strictly as a last resort you understand, refer you to the intelligence agencies as a potential threat to national security."

"MI5? Nonsense, Mr Bond. You are wasting both your time and mine. Good day."

"You expect me to do nothing?" I asked. "No, Mr Bond, I expect you to leave." I noticed that the red beam from her laser pointer was silently tracing a path up my inside leg.

She quietly double-clicked one of the icons on her desktop. Within seconds a large man appeared in her office doorway, immaculately dressed in three piece suit, wing collared shirt and bowler hat.

"Don't mind him, he's just the odd job man. But he could show you out quietly and without fuss, if you wished."

Copperfield puts himself in Sir Ian Fleming's shoes

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