You've got to love general practice

Saturday morning surgery and the receptionist – medical record in hand – sheepishly asks if I know Mrs M. My reply in the negative attracts a vigorous description of a 94year-old housebound woman who rules her world from the confines of her bed.
The colourful introduction left me with no doubt that despite her age, Mrs M was one demanding and persuasive lady. Apparently, we’ve even received calls from the local MP when Mrs M’s decided our services weren’t quite up to scratch.
“Last time doctor was just about to visit Mrs M, she called to remind him not to forget the bulb he’d promised to buy and replace in her fridge”, the receptionist said. “He’s even started clipping the ivy around her front door”.
On this particular Saturday morning, the problem according to Mrs M at least, was an errant community nurse who’d forgotten to instill her eye-drops. As well, she’d run out of sleeping tablets, and hadn’t slept for a week, she testily informed the receptionist.
Furthermore if, as the only doctor working that day, I didn’t come and put them in, she’d threatened to call the media.
Strangely, I couldn’t wait to visit.
On a not-very-serious level, as a medical editor, I was bemused to be in a position to offer her a doctor and media representative at the same visit, but was also fascinated by her feistiness.
On arrival, I negotiated the clutter and detritus of a long, and recently immobile, life.
I cleaned her eyes, instilled her eye-drops, and copped a serve for not delivering a script for sleeping tablets rather than the tablets themselves. But she had a back-up plan, and like most of the people in Mrs M’s life, I found myself following her instructions to the letter.
“Call the chemist on this number, and tell them to get Angela from the fruit shop next door to bring the tablets down on her way home”.
We did and they did.
You’ve got to admire her pluck.