Saturday was no better. A call from the builder. A truck would be arriving to take away his portacabin. Could I dismantle the temporary gates to let it drive straight in so as not to rip up the newly laid yard surface? Of course, Bob, right away, I replied. (I call the builder Bob because that’s his name). As I hung up, I heard the truck. Already in the yard. Doing 27-point turns and churning the hardcore into a badly ploughed field.

Driver! I yelled. Stop! Stop! Don’t go into the … garden. Too late. Now I had a yard fit to grow spuds in and a 40t truck planted 30cm deep in muck. Christ did you not heard me shouting? Did you not see me waving at you to stop? I’ll get out no bother once the weight of the portacabin is on the back.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. The only thing to do was to flag down a passing truck and hope it could pull him out. The first two sped by, the drivers averting their eyes. No way were they getting involved. The third stopped. Howya? Howya gettin’ on? Grand mornin’. Mild one isn’t it. It is alright. A right one. Listen. Could ya give yer man a tug out? No English. No speak English. Peadar Murphy, now seeing the carnage, suddenly became Pavel Murkowski and drove off.

The fourth truck obliged and the 40t was harvested. I stood by with a spade and waterhose to help clean the wheels. I didn’t get a chance. Both drivers pulled out onto the road and sped away with more muck flying than you’d see at the Mahon Tribunal. I spent the next half hour scraping up sods and tossing them over the hedge, all the while being angrily honked at by the very speeding motorists I was trying to prevent crashing. Wankers!

That afternoon I realised no mail from my Topmail account had been arriving for weeks. (With about 12 email accounts, it is easy not notice one isn’t working. I’m right, amn’t I?) Tomail is an ultra secure system and the latest enhancement, it would seem, has made it too secure. Once fixed, 40 odd mails popped into my inbox. Some odder than others.

I’d missed a monster thread about drinks the night before some awards thing or other. I’d missed a mail from the Hallowed Halls of Bockschloβ about some awards thing or other. I’d missed an incredibly well researched mail from Towers gan Fhéile, listing all the transport options I would have to and from drinks the night before some awards thing or other, should I wish to partake. I’d missed a mail from Castillo del Niña Problemo reminding me about lunch the day after some awards thing or other. There was only time for some hasty replies and apologies, then I rushed off to an evening in the company of Oisín and his older brother, Seán. All going well, I would get time for more replies and maybe catch some coverage of some awards thing or other after I got them to sleep.

A slow waltz around the kitchen with Oisín in my arms usually does the trick. Not tonight. While I was doing my best Fred Astaire, Oisín had more of a Riverdance thing going on. But the high kicks, jigs and reels eventually tired him out and 15 minutes later he was sleeping like a teenager.

Seán was availing of his allotted 30 minutes of TV and I availed of the break to browse the paper. I scanned a review by Colin Murphy of Twenty’s book. A great many of these bloggers like to share their thoughts on politics, the media, popular culture and their toilet habits. Many, particularly those interested in the latter, do so under cover of a pseudonym. Do I? Do we? Did I ever mention my toilet habits? Did you? Maybe we should if that’s what’s required of us? I’d have to read more of this.

First, get Seán to bed. The very mention of bed to Seán is like a red rag to a bull. Or worse, a wet rag to an electrician.

[Begin special section for Colin Murphy →

The three-year-old reluctantly made his visit to the toilet; did his business; washed his hands; donned his jammies; brushed his teeth; had to be dissuaded from trying to open a pack of tampons so he could clean his ears; went to bed. He suffered a flash dump minutes later and the whole procedure had to be repeated, with the added thrill of a shower and changing bedclothes this time.

Sorry Mr. Murphy - this is the best I can do for the moment. The next time I have an interesting toilet habit of my own to share, you'll be the first to hear.

← End special section for Colin Murphy]

I had read on Íomhá an Lae that some awards thing or other would be streamed live and decided to check it out. It might be interesting – Íomhá an Lae was up for an award for use of the Irish language, as I was. Why my blog was in that category, I can’t fathom. There were other mysteries to solve too. But I couldn’t access the stream. Not to worry, I might still be meeting the best storyteller the Net has ever seen for lunch the following day and she’d fill me in on proceedings – despite having missed a million mails for same.

On Sunday morning I expectantly donned my glad rags (i.e. a clean shirt) and was about to call her hotel when I got word a family member wasn’t well. The doctor had been. For overseas readers, let me explain that getting a doctor out of hours in Ireland is like owning a mansion – very few are that lucky and those that are pay a fortune for the privilage. Would he have to go to hospital? No. The doctor was against that. From past experience they would poke and prod and try things that would make him worse. Then a week later they would send for his file, read it and announce ah, yes, now that’s what we should have been doing. But there was a prescription to be filled if I didn’t mind. Of course I didn’t.

Now, how to find a pharmacy open on a Sunday. In the nearest town some band together and take it in turns. But they don’t put a sign in the window saying whose turn it is so you just drive around in hope. One always opens. Between 11:00 and 14:00. That was for sure and even though the drugs were needed urgently, I waited until then and was standing outside at 11:00 on the button. They opened promptly at 11:25.

Can I have this in liquid form? He can’t swallow pills the way he is now. The chemist checked the computer and told me the liquid form was only licensed for use in hospitals. Buy why? It’s the same AI, I argued, tabs are no good – he can’t swallow them! What age is the child? Eh, 40. Sorry, tabs is all I can give you. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow when the HSE offices are open. We can apply for an exemption. How long will that take? An hour, a week, a month, never – depends on who answers the phone.

So I came out of there with medication that couldn’t be used, the taxpayer had paid for and damn all faith in the HSE.

I think I deserve an award for worst weekend and you deserve one for perseverance if you’ve managed to read all of this.

Doors would be hung that wouldn’t close. They’d be rehung. The wind would whistle through the gaps. They’d be rehung. The Council’s clerk of works would come to inspect them and find substandard hinges. They’d be replaced.

Paint would have to be stripped off, a sealer applied and then repainted. Cracks would appear in the walls and be hastily blocked with fillers. They’d appear again, be refilled and reappear until eventually they didn’t show. And so on until finally everything were as per the specification laid down – or near enough – having been patched up so often, nothing could never be perfect without demolishing and starting from scratch.

He became known, even to Council engineers, as Frankie-four-times.

The Council continued to give him contracts even when he built a wheelchair ramp at their own offices – packed with dusty rubble instead of the hardcore requested, it collapsed within weeks. He redone it and moved on to his next job.

Next up, my generation – I’ve had builders in for months now^Δ. Like all good boys and girls I listened to my parents – didn’t take lifts with strangers; carried a clean hankie; polished the heels of my shoes; didn’t make faces in case the wind left me like that; said please and thank you and didn’t hire Frankie-four-times. He’s probably too busy with local authority work anyway.

The Hymac driver, Ritchie-right hired to dig the foundations, was more expensive than most. But no one had to lift a shovel to tidy the edges when he’d done. The sub-floor was laid and the service lines marked out meticulously with yellow paint. That took time, but the plumbers came the next day and laid the pipes in hours, not days.

The bricklayer too was a little expensive. But he left the gaps the plumbers and electricians would need in exactly the right places and the plasterers worked fast because the walls were plumb and square. A child could have put in the doors and windows thanks to the bricklayer’s skill – the installers didn’t have to take out a chisel.

Floor plans were drawn up in advance and the cabinetmaker didn’t have to cut a skirting board or have a power point moved to put in the fitted presses – the carpenters and electricians had everything laid out for him. The latter ran co-axial, phone and ethernet cable throughout despite my protestations that I don’t watch TV, use a mobile and have a wireless network – you might change your mind in the future and it’s cheaper to do it now. If that happens, it will all be there ready for you, the builder told me.

The tilers found everything level and a dream to work on. The painters had little filling to do, thanks to the work of the plasterers, carpenters and tilers.

Every evening, all rubble was gathered up and placed in a skip. Tools were cleaned and machines refuelled. Floors were swept. Wet work clothes were hung in a room with low heat. The following morning they’d arrive at 8:00 and be working at 8:01.

I have to admit there were occasions I was frustrated with the time it was taking and how much things were costing. Often I tried persuade the builder that something would do, it was fine, there was no need to be that particular, only to be met with a lecture about getting things right the first time. His belief was, if you start right, you’ll finish right. And he was right. I see that now. I should have seen it before – I knew that in 25 years as a builder, he has not once been called back to a single job. 25 years of happy clients. In 25 years he has never had to advertise or tout for work.

Such a contrast to the State-run work done for my parents. But then, that’s the way of things.

Years ago, the State built two trams lines into the capital. They didn’t meet! Now they are to be connected and will cost billions. A businessman offered to foot the bill to extend one line to Citywest and his offer was refused. Now the line is being extended and will cost billions. Why not spend an extra couple of billion now and extend it even further and build a park-and-ride facility 10 times the size that’s needed? Why not at least purchase the strip of land now that would be needed for this? Like the co-axial cable in my house it will be there if we change our minds.

Most civil engineering firms tendering for the M50 design contract proposed a spaghetti junction of flyovers and underpasses for the Red Cow exit, the busiest on the route, but no, a bridge with a roundabout, and later, with traffic lights, was built. The flyovers and underpasses are now under construction and costing billions. Why not build flyovers and underpasses on all roads now being built – just in case we need them in the future?

It’s not just in construction this patching up goes on. Our health service is a shambles costing billions and achieving little. Recently some hospitals stopped performing elective surgery for a period of months to cut costs. Surely bearing the cost of a patient undergoing a small operation and a short stay in hospital now is far less than that which will be incurred later should their condition worsen and they need to avail of A&E and/or a major operation and/or an extended stay.

Our road users are a joke, though not a very funny one. Hundreds die each year. Minor collisions happen every minute of every day, but we don’t know just how many or what the cost is. The State launches anti drink driving campaigns. The State brings in a penalty points system. The State adds more offences to the points list every year. The Gardaí can’t enforce them and even if they do catch a driver guilty of a number of infringements only the one with the highest point rating goes on their record. You can sit a driving test without prior instruction. You can fail that test, get back in a car and drive away. Now here are some mad ideas: Why not train learner drivers properly? Why not reduce policing on major roads and concentrate on the minor ones where most accidents occur? Why not clamp down on the driver who speeds in a 50km/h zone and doesn’t use indicators at roundabouts? The driver who obeys these simple rules is not the one who gets in the car full of drink and kills themselves – it is the one who is continually flouting the law.

I could go on. I could tell you about how, on the second year we had car-free day, everyone drove, including those who normally take a bus or train, because the previous year the public transport system couldn’t take the strain and people were stranded. I could tell you how a debit-card system is proposed whereby under 25s can only purchase a limited amount of alcohol over a given period. It is hard enough to judge a person is under 18 but how do you know a 25 year old? We have no national ID card system. What will be the cost of installing card readers in every outlet? Will the retailers bother to use them? I could tell you how approval was given to An Garda Síochána for a secure digital radio system in 1999. It may come into use in 2010, but until then, the one they have will do even though criminals can listen in.

I could go on ad infinitum. But I’m tired. I’m tired of the whole thing. I’m tired of the State failing to do things right first time. I’m tired of the State continually patching up problems but never fixing them properly. I’m tired of the State digging the foundations and letting sections collapse because it will do. It can be difficult to see so far ahead or make the connection, but if the foundations are right the painters will have no problems.

It may never happen, it will never happen, but I dream of the day when Ritchie-right is running my country and Frankie-four-times has been banished for ever.

As he suffering from one of a list of prescribed diseases or disabilities, to use the HSE term, he holds a long term illness book. This entitles him to the drugs, medicines and medical and surgical aids and appliances prescribed for that disease free of charge. Note the caveat there: prescribed for that disease

So what does that mean and how does it work? Well, his doctor enters the type and quantity of drugs he prescribes into the book. Then some official in the HSE checks that those drugs are on the list for that disease and rubber stamps it. Once approved, any pharmacy can dispense what’s needed. Great!

But sometimes they are not approved. Why? Well they will have been certified safe by the Medical Board but no official has gotten around to deciding they are suitable for his particular ailment. So what happens then? Well his wife, doctor, specialist, chemist, bin-man, soothsayer, everyone! fights to have them put on his book. In the meantime, they have to be paid for.

Now I hear someone reminding me about the community drugs scheme whereby no-one pays more than €85 in any calender month for approved prescribed medicines. Yes, but €85 is a lot when your disability or long term illness benefit is less than €200 a week, out of which you need to buy the regular stuff and pay the regular bills we all do. Then on top of that there are extra expenses like paying a carer for the additional hours worked above the 20 covered by the HSE.

Note that the description of what is covered by this book doesn’t mention things we would all assume like doctor visits. It doesn’t cover hospital fees. If he gets the flu he has to pay to see his doctor and for whatever antibiotics he prescribes. If he breaks an arm he must pay the A&E charges. The time his bladder failed and he needed surgery he got a hospital bill for €500.

Most of you won’t believe this. I know you won’t because no-one ever does. They think (and excuse the pun) I’m making some sick joke. How could someone so ill be treated like this?

So what’s the solution? A medical card. That covers doctors, hospitals and whatever medicines they, or other health workers, prescribe.

So why doesn’t he have one? Well he does … most years. Not all. It is reviewed every year based on income and every year, coupled with his wife’s, their combined income is over the limit by a few euro. And yes, they do count his state benefits in this calculation. Every year his application is refused and has to be appealed based on the expenses he would be expected to incur such as doctor and hospital visits and medicines not listed on his long term illness book.

Some years the appeal fails. Others it it successful. But each year the rigmarole is the same: Send in the application. Two weeks later expect a response. None comes. Make a phone call. Oh, yes, we have that here and are working on it. A week later phone again. No, I can’t seem to find that. Are you sure you sent it in? Insist you did. They find it. Two weeks later. Get the refusal notice. Send off the appeal. Wait two weeks. Make a call. No, I can’t seem to find that. Are you sure you sent it in? Insist you did. They find it. A week later. Make another call. Oh, yes, we have that here and are working on it right now. Wait a few days. Make yet another call. Well, we can’t proceed until you supply us with such-and-such document. Insist that it was sent. Well maybe we lost it. Ask how they could lose it when everything was stapled together. Maybe when it was being photocopied. Say there would have been no need to photocopy anything as you provided copies to save them doing it. Oh, look. Here it is on my desk. I will get to work on this immediately. Ask if you can call tomorrow for news. Oh, I don’t work Wednesdays or Thursdays. Call Friday. Call Friday and there’s something else. And so on and so on and so on.

While all this is going on, he has to pay the doctor, chemist and so on. This year is no different. That last I heard, the appeal is at the maybe we lost it stage. In the meantime, while all this was going on, and order for a speech aid (and some other items) that took 8 months to get approved, has been cancelled by some official in the HSE’s purchasing department. Why? Because the computer says he has no medical card. When If he gets the card back he can reapply. Another 8 months.

There are benefits and structures in place to assist him and others like him. There are doctors, nurses, chemists, therapists, wives, husbands, kids, carers, bin-men, soothsayers, you name it, all working long and hard to help him. Yet the whole thing collapses when some jumped up little official in a suit that doesn’t rhyme doesn’t know how to or can’t/won’t do the job they’re paid to do. These people are the real sickness the HSE needs to deal with. These are the cancer in the system.

Now, forgive the pun, but there are a few things bugging me about this campaign:

There is a line slipped in at the end of the radio ad reminding hospital staff to wash their hands too. Is this not a given? Are they not the professionals? Did all those years of study and training teach them nothing about basic hygiene?

Perhaps it is aimed at staff other than doctors and nurses. I hope it is. Last year, when our father was in God’s waiting room there was an MRSA outbreak.  We, doctors and nurses included, wore gloves, masks and aprons, and washed our hands thoroughly going in and out of the ward. On one occasion we were there at lunch time. The caterer came in, distributed the trays and left for the next ward. No gloves. No mask. No apron. No hand washing. We freaked and complained to the ward sister that all our precautions were for nothing if this woman could be allowed to ramble throughout the hospital spreading infection. We were told she was an external contractor and they had no authority over her. (He died of MRSA. They put pneumonia on the death cert but that’s for another post on another day).

There are infection threats other than just MRSA in our hospitals: Clostridium difficile is a major one. You can read more about it here, or here if you have more time, but the basics are as follows. It is called C. difficile because it is extremely difficult to treat. The antibiotics which do work are among the most expensive. It is most prevalent where a patient is being treated with antibiotics for other infections. Catch 22. It can kill those who are weakened by age or serious ailments.

Why don’t we hear about it? Because the HSE are legally obliged to collect and publish statistics on MRSA but not C. difficile. For all we know it could be more common than MRSA.

This is yet another example of the lack of joined up thinking we have come to expect in our state services.