THE CHEESEWIRE OF DOOM
© Suzanne Bosworth
Published by AMSPAR Magazine

It was Wednesday afternoon at the Department of Health and O'Snart chewed his biro moodily. Stationery and other sundry costs in the NHS had become the stuff of nightmares to him since he’d mentioned recently that he’d been Tuck Shop Monitor at school.
     ‘You’re just the person to address this particular issue,’ Harriet McThwart, Regional Government Spokesperson for Hospital Trust Action Plans, had barked. ‘If anyone will understand the complexities of supply and demand in the face of naked aggression and ugly greed, you will.’
     And so, for a short, dizzyingly exciting period he’d believed she was impressed by his acuity and negotiating skills. Then he’d got her email. ‘Current spending levels for stationery and sundries in the NHS are spiralling out of control across the country. Come up with some creative cost-cutting measures in time for Wednesday’s press conference or you’re back in the basement where lavatory paper is hard and shiny and the coffee vile.’
     The press hounds had gathered and McThwart was due to arrive in about three quarters of an hour, but O'Snart had not suffered Wagon Wheels being torn from his grasp by savage fourth formers without having learned the basics of delegation and blame.
     He rang Greep. 'Greep. Listen carefully. Take a standard issue biro and a piece of closely lined A4 paper. On this piece of paper write the word 'cutbacks' as many times as you can. When you have finished, count the number of lines and multiply by the number of words on the line, which will give us the number of characters it is possible to squeeze onto a sheet of A4.’
     ‘Red, black, blue or green ink?’
     ‘Does it matter?’
     ‘It matters because,’ said Greep, anxious to demonstrate his razor sharp mind to its fullest advantage to anyone in higher management within earshot, ‘red ink suggests urgency and authority. Black ink speaks of determination, forthrightness and direct communication. Blue is non-threatening. Green means you’re barking mad.’
     ‘Black, of course,’ said O’Snart, making a mental note to ditch all his biros into Greep’s drawer. ‘Presentation is all.’
     What O'Snart failed to take into account was that Greep had a meticulous hand, with writing so tiny it was barely legible. He was what some would cruelly call anally retentive but he preferred to refer to himself as surgically precise. So much so that when he finished writing, forty four minutes later, he had 6,600 characters.
     O’Snart elbowed Greep aside as McThwart strode into the room. Swiftly he debriefed.
     ‘But that’s ingenious!’ McThwart cried, comparing the closely written sheet with a couple of pages of outpatient clinic notes secretly and illegally photocopied at a nearby hospital. ‘Just look at this! Two pages of large scrawl just to say that a patient is looking green around the gills and needs something chopped off. Two whole pages!’
     ‘Shocking,’ agreed O’Snart instantly. ‘Absolutely appalling.’
     ‘This means that our axe can fall across the board. Take this down.’
     O’Snart poked Greep in the shoulder. ‘Take this down.’
     ‘Firstly,’ began McThwart, ‘we will insist on the immediate adoption of size 8 Arial font for all word processed work including minutes, reports and pathology results, a maximum of two lines of clinic notes with the threat of written warnings and disciplinary action if infringed, and letters printed on a size of paper appropriate to the length of the letter which will save on paper. If this means using the stickies given out free by the pharmaceutical companies, so much the better. Overall we will save on paper, writing tools and printer cartridges.’
     ‘Brilliant,’ breathed O’Snart.
     ‘Stunning,’ breathed Greep, slightly louder than O’ Snart.
     ‘Good work, O’Snart!’ cried McThwart. ‘I knew I could count on you. And here’s an idea that sprang to mind in the car on my way over here. Electrical equipment. Far too much of it about.’
     ‘Electrical …?’
     ‘Far too much. For example, it’s got to the stage where nearly every medical secretary has their own computer, printer, telephone, and audiotape transcriber. This can’t go on.
     Greep and O’Snart were breathless with anticipation.
     ‘It’s about time these people understood they can’t expect equipment handed to them on a plate. Why can’t they share resources. They can’t ALL be using everything at the same time. Telephones for example. On instrument between three? Perfectly acceptable. One cheap, bottom of the range printer between three? Quite adequate. And why can’t they type their letters in shifts rather than drain us dry of electricity keeping everything switched on for hours.’
     ‘It sounds,’ Greep offered carefully, ‘ as though you’re advocating one computer, telephone, printer and audiotape transcriber per three secretaries.’
     ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ roared McThwart joyously, slapping him hard on the back. ‘I mean, give them more resources than they actually need and before you know it they’re getting ideas above their station and demanding parity with legal secretaries. It’s a slippery slope. No, ration everything. Treat them mean, keep them keen and give them a good flogging if they look at you sideways. No, that’s the Army isn’t it. Mind you …’
     Just at that moment an aide knocked and entered respectfully. ‘The press are ready when you are, Ms McThwart,’ he said in hushed tones.
     ‘This will be your hour of triumph, Ms McThwart,’ croaked Greep, his eyes shining.
     ‘Not mine,’ said McThwart. ‘O’Snart’s.’ She poked O’Snart in the shoulder. ‘You’re expendable and I’m not, plus I forgot to put on my bullet-proof vest. Go on! Off you trot! And if the bellowing gets too loud or people start throwing fruit and dairy goods, what words will you repeat to yourself to remind you of your duty to the Department and your comfortable, carpeted office on the third floor?’
     O’Snart swallowed hard and steeled himself for an hour of complete hell and savagery from the press and NHS spokespeople. He searched his mind for an inspirational mantra.
     ‘Courage in the face of adversity? There’ll be a welcome in the hillsides? Per ardua ad astra?’
     ‘No. Bronco lavatory paper.’