I admit that I clapped under sufferance. Not because I wasn’t in awe of our brilliant NHS but more so the nagging feeling that this was no more than an orchestrated token of appreciation.
Formed on 5th July 1948, a result of the 1942 Beveridge cross-party report, and launched by Labour’s Minister of Health Aneurin Bevan the NHS has become a consistent political football. Call me cynical but as I clapped with fellow neighbours, some banging wooden spoons heartily against pots and pans, I felt that this display of gratitude would, at some point, be judged in the court of public opinion following a future political choice.
During this deadly pandemic which has paralysed the globe our NHS have put themselves in the eye of the storm. The epicentre of danger. The very battleground of conflict with an unseen foe. Every time a member of our elite NHS entered the fray, they faced the real and ever-present danger of infection. Continual exposure to this virulent disease claimed the lives of relatively healthy NHS angels too.
Of course, there are other heroes: the emergency services, care workers, supermarket staff, and other keyworkers. But none are comparable to the levels of risk which enveloped the NHS.
The messaging is chronic. Such an emotional issue countered by seemingly logical references to pay scales leaves me feeling depressingly justified that my handclapping would ultimately be hijacked by cynical handwringing.
Thank goodness there are people with compassion, care and courage who choose the NHS as a vocation.
I don’t need to clap you since my heart beats continuous applause.
Regards,
Ian Kirke
© Ian Kirke 2021
Title photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash