Nee Naw

If I do my job badly — if I lie, am aggressive, swear, refuse to co-operate, whatever — then a caller can put in a complaint about me.

If a caller does his “job” (that is, the “job” of being a concerned citizen, helping others, which I am sure you will agree is everybody’s job) badly, we just have to grin and bear it. So sometimes I imagine that all our callers have a very strict boss, and that when they misbehave, I can fill out a complaint form, and file it with their boss. I imagine the boss calling them into an office and saying “So, last night, you swore at a 999 call taker, then told her that your baby was not breathing, knowing full well that all was wrong with your baby was a runny nose. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be suspended without pay until a full enquiry is made. We will then inform you if you are allowed to continue your role as a member of the public or whether you will have to be locked in a cupboard for the rest of your life.”

Of course, it is a good job we cannot file complaints about members of the public really, because then we would be too busy doing so to send any ambulances.

I was watching the news just now, and there was an article about the Surrey Ambulance Nee Naw Control room. Apparently a woman dialled 999 in desperation because her Polish mother was dialling the Polish equivalent of 999 and was being refused an ambulance. Unfortunately I missed the beginning of the article so I don’t know what was wrong or why it was refused, but it sounds like she was seriously ill. I can just imagine the look on that call taker’s face when he asked for the address of the emergency and was told it was in Poland!

In all my time in Nee Naw Control, I have only had one call for outside the UK. (We get calls for outside London all the time, but those aren’t a problem — we just call the relevant ambulance service and pass the details on.) The call was from a man who had been talking on the phone to a friend in Germany, who had, as far as he could work out, proceeded to choke on a sweet and drop the phone. My caller did not know his friend’s address, nor did he know anyone else in Germany who could help. The only option was for me, with the aid of an interpreter, to ring the International Operator and ask to be put through to the Nee Naw Control in Berlin. They would then have had to ring the telephone company to trace the owner of the phone number (a privilege us ambulance people have).

Fortunately, just as I was being put through, my caller rang up to give us the good news that his friend had managed to cough up the offending sweet by herself and had called him back to let him know she was okay. This was rather fortunate, since I don’t think the poor woman would have stood much of a chance otherwise, even if her friend had been in the same country and knew where she lived!

Somewhere in the depths of North London, a young man falls over and injures his leg. He thinks it might be broken. He hobbles to the telephone and dials the number of his local taxi firm. Yes, that’s a real taxi, not one of our Big White ones. He then limps outside to wait for the taxi. Ten minutes later, it arrives, and he eases himself into the back seat.

“Where to?” asks the cab driver, starting the engine and pulling off.

“North Middlesex Hospital, please,” says the man. “The A+E department. I think I’ve broken my leg!”

“Oh my god!” says the taxi driver. “You can’t be getting in taxis with a broken leg. Hold on a minute!”

He drives to the firm’s headquarters and uses their phone to dial 999, explaining that he has a man with a broken leg in his taxi asking to be taken to the hospital. He gets through to me.

“Erm,” I said, hating to state the bleeding obvious. “He’s got a broken leg, and he’s in your taxi asking to be taken to the hospital. Why don’t you take him there? If we send an ambulance, we’re just going to have to take him out of the taxi, which will mean moving him around, and if someone has a broken bone you’re supposed to move them as little as possible.”

“Look mate!” said the taxi driver gruffly. “He’s got a broken leg, he’s ENTITLED to an ambulance! Stop trying to get out of sending him one!”

“I’m quite happy to send an ambulance,” I said (this was a lie), “it’s just that if a patient with a broken leg in a car, it makes more sense and is better for the patient to drive him to the hospital”.

“Right!” said the taxi driver, and left the phone. In the background I could hear muffled voices and a young man cursing in pain. It sounded rather like he was being dragged out of the back of the taxi. The taxi driver returned.

“We’ve got him out!” he said triumphantly. “Now send us an ambulance!” *click*

Someone actually called for an ambulance for an ingrowing toenail last night…

No, they didn’t get one.

It was me who took the first call about the London Bombs, exactly one year ago today. The first call wasn’t as significant as you might think: it wasn’t like someone shouted “Oh my god, bombs!” and we all leapt into action. The call I took was simply the Fire Brigade saying “We’ve had a report of some kind of explosion - we’d like one ambulance on standby, please”. From then on, it was like a mexican wave - calls about explosions went around the room amongst the usual trickle of Thursday morning calls. A station supervisor from Aldgate was in tears, describing a stream of people with debris in their hair and blood trickling down their faces leaving the station. Paddington Police rang to report a possible train crash at Edgware Road, and recoiled in horror as I told them that we’d been called to two other such incidents. The phones rang hot with hospitals wanting to know whether we would be bombarding them with bomb casualties. Victims rang from the scenes demanding more ambulances; ambulances that had to be sent from every station in London. The resource centre frantically rang everyone who was off work that day and asked them to come in. People in fluorescent coats shouted things about death tolls and numbers of casualties. And behind it all, real life went on. Elderly people with pneumonia had no way of getting to hospital. People called 999 for a broken leg and were turned away. Patients with suspected heart attacks refused help, saying that the ambulances needed to be saved for those in real need. Rumours and speculation abounded. Were there two separate bombs at Russell Square and Kings Cross? Had the trains at Edgware Road collided? Had another bomb been found at Victoria? Had people been killed at Canary Wharf? Had a bus exploded near Euston?

By 10am, a state of organised pandemonium had crept in. I was allowed out for 10 minutes to contact relatives. The first call I made was to my mother, who works near Liverpool Street. She knew nothing about it.

“Are you alright, mother?”
“Why wouldn’t I be, dear?”
“There’s been… things going on… people dead… explosions… bombs!”
“Oh my god! Bombs?!”

It didn’t seem real until I’d said it.

Four months later, I was invited to 10 Downing Street for an Emergency Services Reception for those at work that fateful day. They picked me because I took the first call, which made me feel a bit strange, because everyone on call taking that day did the same thing, and the first call itself was hardly significant. I got to meet the ambulance crews who were on duty that day, and felt truly humble when they told me their stories.

“We got to Aldgate, and there was a woman holding a compress to her face, just sitting quietly,” said one crew. “We lifted up the bandage, and there was her eye, hanging out of its socket, dangling on her cheek”.

In a way I felt I shouldn’t be there at all — I wasn’t in any danger that day, I didn’t see the things the crews did — but I was glad that someone from Control had been selected because we’re so often overlooked. And I got to shake hands with Tony Blair! He muttered something about the great job we all do, and I grinned and nodded like some kind of gibbering idiot. I hobnobbed with MPs and met the driver of The Bus. Some of the crews got a bit squiffy on the laid-on red wine. I was too scared to drink anything in case I behaved inappropriately, and stuck to orange juice. I certainly have something to tell my grandchildren now.

A year on, and life in Nee Naw Control is back to normal. No-one jumps when we get a call from London Underground. We don’t have half the fleet on standby whenever the police find a suspect package. An explosion is just an explosion, perhaps a stink bomb or at worse a match that’s got too close to a gas canister. Others, of course, are not so lucky. Those who were involved or who lost loved ones will never be able to get back to normal.

July 7th, 2006, the morning rush hour, and I’m sitting on a tube train after a heavy night shift, thinking of those people who were doing just the same a year ago, unaware of what was to come. What was it like for them? What went through their minds? Is it my imagination, or does this carriage seem a little more empty than usual? Does that guy have a rucksack?

0853, a year from that fateful first call, and I’m safely tucked up in bed.

So after a year after flying under the radar, one of my colleagues at Nee Naw Control has finally worked out the true identity of Mark Myers. To be honest, this is a bit of a relief. Although the other three London Ambulance Service bloggers use pseudonyms, I am (was) the only one who has concealed their identity totally (Tom Reynolds and Not So Newbie have both posted photos of themselves), and I’ve found it a bit restrictive because not only do I have to be careful not to reveal my callers’ identities, I also have to be careful not to reveal my own - changing the dates and times of incidents, deliberately posting on my day off, not posting about things that could easily be traced back to me…

Anyway, whilst I am not brave (or stupid!) enough to reveal my real identity here, I’m not going to any lengths to hide it either, and I’m going to start making some more posts about me and my career. I’ll start by announcing that I have my driving test next week, and if I pass then it’ll be another two years and one Public Carriage Vehicle test until I can apply to go out on the road and start blogging from the other side. Wish me luck!

“Hello, is that the resource centre? This is Mark Myers. I am afraid I can’t come in today. The weather is too nice; I have to go to the pub.”

“Mark, would you like to do overtime on Saturday night?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It’s double time…”

“I don’t care if it’s fifty pounds an hour, there is no way you are getting me in that place. Yes, I know it’s going to be 31°, yes, I know England are playing in the quarter finals of the world cup. Yes, I know that we desperately need the staff. Call me selfish if you like, but nothing I’ve done in a past life would ever warrant the punishment of working that shift.”

England lost to Portugal on penalties, after playing one man down from 62 minutes onwards, after top striker Wayne Rooney was sent off for stamping on and pushing an opponent.

I am totally not regretting my decision at all right now. It was bad enough being at work the other weekend when England won the football; I don’t even want to think what it’s going to be like tonight. When England win, a sizeable proportion of the casualties are benevolent drunks who have fallen off their barstool after one Stella too many. When England lose, people get moody. And moody drunks fight. And they do stupid things like get in cars and run people over. Some of them even find the failure of their national team is the final push that drives them to suicide. Whatever happens, you can guarantee tonight is going to end in tears and 999 calls for a lot of England fans.

There’s only one place I would less like to be now than at work, and that’s in Wayne Rooney’s shoes.