I've just arrived back in Plymouth after a lovely weekend spent with very special people. They are the friends who have been there for me throughout this bloody awful process. They have hugged me, wiped my tears, fed me, been on the other end of the phone, slept nearby when I was scared or they were scared for me and generally given so much more of themselves than I ever would have believed possible. Thank you, everyone of you - you know who you are.
Coming back here is always with mixed feelings. It has been a haven for the past 3 weeks and I'm so grateful for that but it's a reminder, also, that until yesterday, I had no place else to go. It is a strange place - and certainly not meant to be anyone's home. The doctors who sleep here are not meant to get comfortable; they are here to work and the accommodation provides them with only the very basic they might require: a kettle, fridge, microwave and a 2 ring hob. One pan and a few plates, cup and cutlery. The only knife to cut with is an enormous meat cleaver which weighs a ton! My first week here I tried chopping dainty slices of carrot for stir fry and almost removed the fingers of my right hand (I'm left handed) in an effort to peel the first carrot. Since then all peel remains firmly on!
The residence block itself is a bit like a ghost town. I hear doors opening and closing and occasionally the lift arriving but after 3 weeks I have yet to meet another person. There are 32 rooms in this block and I know that there are more than a couple of people around just by the number of cars in the car park. I can only assume that few of them make it back to their rooms often enough to make their presence felt. The life of a junior doctor never was easy.
This weekend I went back to my former home and spent the weekend with my neighbours and good friends. I miss that small community very much but returning was hard; much harder than i imagined it would be. My former home is part of a 'back to front' terrace of houses where the gardens at the front of the house are almost communal. Stepping out of your front door was almost always a pleasure; there would be someone to chat with to or drink tea with or share stories or give or receive support. I will miss that. I also found myself completely unable to look at the house without welling up. I admit to having several good weeps. I think it was probably too soon to have returned but seeing my friends again made it worthwhile and I laughed more this weekend that I have for sometime.
I also briefly met someone who has remained in my thoughts ever since. She reminded me that however terrible life might seem, there is always someone suffering more - and those people are all around us. Her story is something that this country ought to be ashamed of and also ought do be doing something about. She is from Romania and has been in this country for just under a year. She is 50 years old and in own country had a well paid job as an engineer in the petrochemical industry. She had her own flat, a mortgage and a life.
Everything started to go wrong when the Romanian economy began to nose dive and the petrochemical industry began to shrink. She found herself moving from lesser paid job to lesser paid job until one day, the industry which had seemed indestructible..... had disappeared completely. In common with thousands of other Romanians, she took the decision to leave the country - could no longer afford the spiralling mortgage rate and prices. It appears there is something very odd happening in Romania and no-one can really put their finger on what is going on; the economy has gone into free fall and the standard of living has declined rapidly. It seems that land is being bought up by unknown purchasers - the Russians and Chinese are suspected and there is even a rumour that Transylvania is being sold off as a job lot. Her decision to come here was made in desperation. She was utterly terrified of what was happening and when an English agency offered her work, she grabbed the opportunity with both hands.
The agency charged her £1000 for finding her a job and accommodation and she arrived here frightened and knowing no-one.
The work the agency have found for her is in care homes looking after elderly residents. She has received no training and is forced to work as many nights as the care home insists - at present that is 5, 14 hours shifts per week, looking after 47 residents. She is paid the minimum wage but has a battle with the agency to be paid correctly and on time - and of course they level further charges on her pay for the privilege of working for them.
She looks exhausted and pitiful as she is telling me this and I feel a monumental anger that this kind of slavery is being allowed to happen in our country. And there is no other word to describe it. This is slavery! We are allowing these despicable agencies to pray on vulnerable and desperate people and it makes me feel sick to even contemplate the misery that is going on all around us.
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