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Postman Prat and his black and white GMC letter

Copperfield has just missed a recorded delivery and fears it must be a GMC letter admonishing him for tearing strips off a paramedic who failed to read his referral letter.

Copperfield has just missed a recorded delivery and fears it must be a GMC letter admonishing him for tearing strips off a paramedic who failed to read his referral letter.



Bollocks. I really must get a noisier doorbell.

Postman Prat has filled out one of his "While you were out..." forms in the time it took me to hurtle down two flights of stairs from my office – where I was working on this blog – to my front door after I heard the post box clatter and the front gate shut.

By now he's on his bike and out of earshot. He's left me a crumpled piece of red cardboard telling me that he was unable to deliver my "Letter" as it has been sent "Recorded Signed For" and "A signature is required".

I'm advised to leave WEDS hours (handwritten) before schlepping off to the sorting office to pick it up. I'm assuming that WEDS hours means, "don't bother trying until Wednesday".

Shite. Only two organisations in the world send letters that are "Recorded Signed For" and for which "A signature is required". Actually it might be three as the War Office has given up sending "Missing In Action" chits by telegram.

But in my world it can only mean that the Wiltshire Safety Camera Partnership has taken yet another photo of the tail end of my car doing 76mph on a deserted stretch of the A303 or the General Medical Council want to play hardball about my recent article/ consultation/contra-temps with ambulance driver or other over promoted wannabe medic.

It has to be the GMC. Arse. I'd have seen a GATSO flash and TomTom is set up to make a kerching kerching noise when a cash camera location appears on the horizon.

Which means it's probably the paramedic who called me out of my surgery and back to a patient's house so I could read my hospital referral letter to him out loud. "It's always better to hear the doctor's opinion first hand." he said. So I told him.

I let him know that my peer group had always considered me to be quite good at writing. If he'd been arsed to read the bloody letter and had a query regarding its content he'd have been welcome to ring the surgery number – as printed at the foot of the notepaper – and discuss the case by telephone.

Or, and I might have stressed this a bit over much, he could have done his sodding job, scraped the poor sick bastard off his piss-soaked mattress and conveyed him to the Accident & Emergency Department where he was expected.

The least helpful option, but still the one he chose, was to fast bleep me halfway across town. He said he'd complain about my "attitude".

I told him if he found reading and writing so effing difficult he might want to get a friend to spell check his letter before he spent money on a stamp.

Which means that I'll have to spend half an hour knocking out an updated version of my default "Sorry that I pissed you off / insulted your delightful spouse / missed your carcinoma of the pancreas" letter.

But wait, I have e-mail. "Your tickets have been despatched. They should arrive later today by Recorded Delivery. We hope you'll enjoy the show."

You bet I will.

Copperfield blog - Postman Prat and his black and white GMC letter

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