Dr Haiku ignores working time directive
Dr Haiku hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since he returned from holiday. Many of the 27 patients in his clinic are in a critical condition and, like his colleagues in the British NHS, he feels forced to ignore the constraints of the EWTD. The idea of sticking to a 48-hour week seems increasingly absurd and 11 hours consecutive rest is mathematically impossible on top of an 18-hour working day. However he does occasionally dream of enjoying the stipulated 24 uninterrupted hours rest per week: at Christmas perhaps?
Strikes across the EU, but none for Dr Haiku.
He has found little time while on call to unwind, even in the clinic’s bowling alley (installed in case the Chief Surgeon of the United States were to drop by). He had one lane specially adapted to just 9-pins with the ambition, so far unrealised, of achieving a turkey strike: 27 down in one go.
And to cap it all, Dr Haiku will now have to spend much of the next two years getting all the patients to agree to a new charter for the establishment.
Starting his rounds, he smiles at Belgium, but moves on quickly: he’s not up to dealing with schizophrenics, even if they are family. The Netherlands looks like she has decided to live with her indigestion for the moment, even though it seems worse than that afflicting Austria, Denmark or Sweden. He doesn’t bother to try and strike up a conversation with Finland: he is worn out from discussions with their relative in accounts.
He surreptitiously removes the box of Turkish delight that some practical joker had left by the German bed: he can’t have the only patient with a full set of vital organs being upset when numerous transplants may be necessary. He’s been nervous about gifts ever since Luxembourg threw a tantrum over a caravan park set.
France, meanwhile, is running a high fever and has developed a bizarre tic of legs that won’t stop marching. Italy keeps denying she’s out of condition, but the best dress sense in the world can’t disguise figures as bad as hers.
Britain, on the other hand, has started a serious weight-loss regime, which looks as though it might do the trick. However Dr Haiku is worried that Ireland’s stomach reduction surgery may have been too drastic.
By the west window, Portugal is complaining about the bitter medicine she has been prescribed. In the next bed, Spain is a real concern. Whoever advised her that a diet of concrete was good for stamina should be disbarred.
Finally he pauses by the Greek bed to check the chart and notes a slight improvement. Nevertheless, those third-degree burns are going to take forever to heal and the possibility of permanent disfigurement cannot be ruled out.
He’s dead on his feet and decides he can’t face looking round the more recent arrivals. He will however give the clinic’s services manager José a call about that nasty red stain under Hungary’s bed.
Still, he reflects, at least he doesn’t have to put up with the constant screaming and shouting in the asylum next door. Or take the inmates for their monthly outing through strike-bound territory. Poor Jerzy.
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The Brussels Jungle
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Well, if Dr Haiku could get the French to agree to the 35 hour grève per week, the sons and daughters of the Revolution might actually be able to live in their Republic, with fuel for their vehicles and other amenities.
All this commotion with even the lycéens up in arms to fight for the retirement age of 60 they are going to pay for themselves, makes me feel some sympathy for Nicolas Sarkozy.
No, 62 years is hardly the age of Biblical Patriarchs, but what can we expect in a country were the ties between State and Church were severed so long ago?
Dr Van Rompuy must feel ready for the only effective cure: rescuing the physician. Perhaps a twelve month cruise through the Caribbean would do the job?