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Imaginary Medical Solutions

Ben Hoban is a GP in Exeter.

One of our suppliers recently introduced a series of innovative measures designed to improve their customer experience, as a result of which they now only deliver once a week, and I found myself double-parked at the wrong end of the High Street, having to pick up a new defibrillator.

We had decided to cancel our usual surgery Christmas dinner on planetary health grounds, in favour of a cold-water chanting retreat, but I’d managed to get out of it by pleading an imminent risk to service provision if we didn’t replace the old defib. I’m sure it’s fine, even if the generator handle does get a bit stiff charging to 360 J, but the Care Quality Commission were very particular about it at their last visit.

“It had a flaking hand-painted sign announcing it as Imaginary Medical Solutions […] I don’t remember going inside, but I must have done …”

There was a notice on the supplier’s door announcing that they were shut, apparently as part of an exciting programme of changes to their consumer-facing presence that would enhance something or other. So there I was, wondering what to do, when I noticed the shop next door. It had a flaking hand-painted sign announcing it as Imaginary Medical Solutions, and a window display that invited deep cleaning rather than curiosity.

I don’t remember going inside, but I must have done, because all of a sudden I was looking out through the window rather than in; the bell over the door hung silently, declining comment. As if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared. ‘Looking for anything in particular today, Sir, or just browsing?’ He was a plump, comfortable-looking man in pin-striped trousers and a plain shirt, with a purple waistcoat and matching fez, and I had the feeling I’d seen him before somewhere. He must have noticed, because he smiled and said, ‘I know, I have one of those faces. Let me show you around.’

The shop didn’t seem to have a layout, so much as a foreground, middleground, and background, with stacked wooden packing crates framing a collection of apparently random objects of various sizes displayed on every available surface. I picked up what looked like a BlackBerry with three separate screens and keyboards, thinking that it seemed just a touch excessive. ‘It’s a Universal Communicator, Sir, with dedicated inputs for text, context, and subtext. Very popular, never get your wires crossed again!’

Next to it was an odd-looking curved length of polished wood, with a cork handle at one end and a fountain- pen nib at the other. ‘That one is a Narrative Arc: you line it up with the elements of the story you have already and mark off where it’s likely to end. Nowadays most people prefer to use a Retrospectoscope, although if you’re interested in the past, you may also want to consider a Biographical Strain Gauge.’ He reached up to a precariously balanced shelf and brought down what looked like a jazzed-up Geiger counter, with a base unit connected by a flex to some kind of sensor. ‘It detects traces of loss, hardship, and vulnerability; you’ll have to turn up the sensitivity from the factory setting, though, or you won’t pick up much.’

“… I decided that getting roughed up by the shopkeeper hadn’t been so bad really, and a freebie is a freebie after all.”

The shopkeeper was clearly getting into his stride, and as it seemed unlikely that he’d have anything as mundane as resuscitation equipment, I decided to go with the flow. The glasses he produced seemed a bit more ordinary, although I wondered if they’d once had a fake nose and moustache attached. ‘Gestalt Spectrometer’, he pronounced as he snapped the case shut. ‘Lets you see what sort of patient you’re dealing with before you get into the details. I would leave that one alone though, Sir.’

Without thinking, I’d picked up what looked like a Möbius strip made out of magnetic tape. ‘It’s a conversational loop, a byproduct of dysfunctional speech, totally pointless.’ ‘Really?’ I replied, intrigued. ‘Yes, best avoided.’ ‘How come?’ I asked him. ‘You just end up going round in circles. It’s a conversational loop, you see, a byproduct of dysfunctional speech, pointless, best avoided.’ The shopkeeper was frowning. I was about to ask him about the loop thingy when he took my arm rather forcefully and marched me off to the till.

‘Sorry about that’, he said, having regained his composure. ‘Allow me to throw in an Adjustable Frame of Reference to make up for any unpleasantness. The invoice will be in the post.’ On the counter was a sturdy-looking carrier bag filled with brown paper packages. I hadn’t seen an assistant anywhere, but somebody must have been very efficient with the scissors and string while I was being shown around. I looked up from the counter to tell the shopkeeper I hadn’t intended to buy anything, but only saw my own reflection in the display window as I stood on the pavement outside, with the bag at my feet. I could hear carol singers somewhere in the distance.

The surgery was cold and empty when I got back, and I sat in the office with a cup of tea, going through my apparently real medical solutions. As I unpacked the Adjustable Frame of Reference, I decided that getting roughed up by the shopkeeper hadn’t been so bad really, and a freebie is a freebie after all. There was one last package in the bag that I didn’t recognise. I undid the string and unwrapped a heavy, bright yellow plastic case, labelled: ‘Automated Empathic Defibrillator, attach electrodes to both parties and activate when instructed! Warning, transfer immediately to nearest Continuous Care Unit (CCU) once rapport has been re-established!’

Since then, our supplier has undergone a radical restructuring, leading to a dynamic redeployment of resources and the termination of its local service. Maybe another trip to Imaginary Medical Solutions is in order.

Featured photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash.

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