Myles Scriven’s inquest judgement

Assistant Coroner Crispin Oliver today read out his judgement in the inquest of 31 year old Myles Scriven who died of a pulmonary embolism on April 16 2023 at Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. The full judgement can be read here: https://www.georgejulian.co.uk/2025/07/11/myless-inquest-coroners-conclusion/

This fifteen page judgement is an excoriating and devastating read. The coroner’s meticulous engagement with the evidence (which included witness statements and spoken evidence, hospital and GP medical records going back two years before Myles died, four expert witness reports and the recordings of earlier parts of the inquest) is clear. The judgement reads like an intensely plotted narrative with every word underpinned by evidence sources, the workings out carefully documented. It ends with an unexpected and beautifully sharp twist.

It is also a refreshing read, shot through with common sense and hints of incredulity. Myles should not have died, he experienced a bewildering set of failings across primary and secondary healthcare despite the active interventions of a loving family which includes a senior medic.

The coroner discusses how deaths from natural causes can be made unnatural, reminding me of the defence barrister at Connor’s inquest arguing drowning was a natural cause of death. The Oxford coroner sharply rebuked this argument and while largely fair, lacked the understanding Crispin Oliver demonstrated. His understanding was in part due to the commissioning of an expert witness report from learning disability expert Dr Liz Herrievan which offered incontrovertible evidence of the numerous failings. Having an expert witness in autism and learning disability is so obvious, I’m still pondering why it is not done as standard practice. We recently published a paper discussing how the ignorance of coroners can contribute to the harms generated by coronial processes for families, as well as obstruct accountability. Getting an expert in this area is a superb workaround leading to more robust engagement and arguably a knock on effect on outcomes.

Like many of the inquests covered by George Julian, the facts in Myles’ case offer an extraordinary array of failings; blood thinning medication was clearly not working and yet the consultant refused to switch to warfarin, an ECG was performed but the results not communicated to anyone leading to a lack of a follow up appointment and review three months later. The discharge letter from the hospital was “borderline useless”. By this time, despite Myles’ obvious deterioration in health, a phone call with the GP led to a note of ‘sounded ok on the phone’ on his file and an appointment three days later resulted in the incomplete recording of medical notes and safety netting advice. Myles died three weeks later.

What the coroner lays out in this judgement is a) the knowledge about Myles communicated to the hospital by his family (take time, don’t use long words or jargon, listen to the family, etc etc etc) and b) the absence of any engagement with this knowledge by professionals. This can only be wilful. The coroner reported a sense of disbelief earlier in the inquest that the hospital had in place all the necessary adjustment mechanisms, including a learning disability nurse and ongoing training, and yet none of this had any impact on the care Myles received. The lack of a hospital passport was flagged as problematic, though given the (non) actions of most professionals around Myles, I’m not sure they’d have even noticed it through their disinterested and disconnected lenses.

The coroner noted that these adjustments were essential to Myles’ care and should have been followed to the letter. Of course they should. As they should in the case of any autistic person or person with learning disabilities. And yet they aren’t. “The evidence is that this did not happen at any point in the timeline of events”. How is it possible for none of these standards to be adhered to? Again, returning to George’s inquest coverage, how many other deaths were due to failings in the most basic standards of care?

The coroner states “GPs demonstrated in their evidence that they had very little real grasp of the technical and regulatory requirements” in connection to patients with learning disabilities. Two GP’s who gave evidence did not understand what the Learning Disabilities register was or how it worked. I’m reminded of a study which found GPs didn’t know what the flag was or where to find it. Extraordinary ignorance that you think would be remedied by implicated professionals hastily with some mortification. But no. This is all apparently fine.

[Myles’ death was of so little consequence to the GPs they did not instruct legal representation until forcefully told they should by the coroner.]

In a gruelling paragraph, the coroner described how he’d come to the conclusion that the GP surgery was so woeful in practice that the character of neglect was not present; neglect can only be considered if the person obviously presents as ill. Drs Clownster and Clownstar were too clueless to notice.

I had to read the final pages of the judgement a few times as the coroner’s narrative arc is blistering. Myles died of a pulmonary embolism. The lack of adjustments made in relation to his learning disabilities resulted in incorrect decision making contributing to his death. I question the coroner’s use of ‘incorrect decision making’ here. The Dr who refused to change the medication that clearly wasn’t working couldn’t really account for this ‘decision’ saying he thought Myles had compliance issues around medication. This strikes me as more of a post-hoc rationalisation. The character of medical decision-making seems to involve more gravitas than simply not bothering to do something or ever following it up. 

A Prevention of Future Deaths (PFD) Report was unsurprisingly issued to the GP surgery. In relation to the NHS Trust, there was the usual bullshit about changes implemented since Myles died which generated more words for the continually overflowing learning pot. And then the coroner smacks the judgement out of the park by issuing a second PFD to the Trust:

Tell me how best practice is going to be complied with and by when.

Wow. Yes. Please do. Adjustments (including mandatory training) simply don’t work. Ticking the box is a pointless and dangerous distraction.

I hope this judgement is read by other coroners as well as health (and absent social care) professionals. Myles was let down so blinking badly the report is a devastating, important, even groundbreaking read. Yet another much loved young person treated as disposable by health and social care professionals. Crispin Oliver, however, showed him and his family much respect, listened to their consistent and informed interventions and questions thoughtfully, and shed light on the absurdities woven through our supposedly universal healthcare system.

Thank you.

30 years.

So Connor turned 30 a week ago last Sunday. Thirty years. I look at the word thirty and wonder what it means. 30. Older than I was when I gave birth to him.

He died 11 years ago, aged 18, before his 19th birthday 5 months later. My maths is rubbish.

These three photos turned up on Facebook this week. Not sure if they were posted in the moment, in the recording of everyday life or later as memories. The latter probably as they landed around Connor’s birth-day.

Artefacts of moments/minutes/hours/days/weeks/months/years of devastation. Of writing, posting, searching, writing, howling, raging and writing some more. Always some more.

Until there wasn’t.

This is a good thing. You can chuck your models of grief in the nearest bin. There is no model. Instead random, shifting levels of sadness, pain, anger, despair, horror, rage, relief and whatever other emotions and feelings you fucking feel. Anything goes.

Oh. And those tears, the broken tap tears that feel uncontrollable? Lean into them. Cry your socks off. How could you not. At home, on a bus, train, walking here, there or anywhere.

I look at these photos.

Summer holidays, a day out, and so much rain.

Cheekiness. Love. Determination. Movement. A brown caguoule among uniform blue. The warm easiness of together.

British Summer time.

Llamas or alpacas at London Zoo.

When a child dies, you study photos, forensically. Attempt to climb in them almost. To be back there for a moment, for the feels and smells.

My mate Fran sends a random pic or two every so often. From school trips or adventures. This new treasure allows fresh exploration. A forgotten hoodie or lunchbox opens a window to a particular time and the wondrous space around it.

What is Rosie holding? How did that sand feel in bare feet? What’s Connor saying to Tom? Where the hell were we heading on that rainy day?

30 is a big one. We went for a long walk on Great Moor. It rained so hard my eyes filled with water. Rain tears.

30 years.

What do you do with those tears?

I sat on the Oxford Tube heading to London this morning. Beautiful, beautiful, warm sunshine. Listening to an accidental playlist I don’t remember making. As we approached Lewknor unexpected tears kicked in. Alan Silvestri’s Forrest Gump? Christ. Silent weeping at the back end of a packed coach to London. 

I started the surreptitious eye wiping routine. Left cheek. Swift wipe with the back of the hand. Wait a mo. Right hand, right cheek. Swipe. 

The woman sitting next to me studiously studied a Housing related journal. Two beautiful young boys on the other side of the aisle silently swung their legs, gadgets charging. Absorbed in technologies that weren’t a distant speck when we used to chug up to London on days out. Bus and heavy haulage spotting. Waiting to get there.

Are we nearly there yet?

I stared up at the skylight trying to back the tear flow. A half arsed study of sky through dirty streaked tinted plastic. Forrest Gump. Where did that come from? Those fucking tears. Falling in a space of strangers.

What do you do with those tears?

The Bayswater Road was closed. I got off at Shepherds Bush.

Wave for Change Day. Muswell Hill. Mixing, mingling and fun. Thorny issues around who speaks for who discussed in a space of openness and acceptance. I rolled with the waves. Listening to people talk about lives and experiences. Imagined futures and fears.

My phone ran out of charge on the way home.

Home.

I turn to memories. Dusty photos and love. The kind of love that makes tears tumble at the drop of an unexpected tune.

Pembrokeshire. Circa. the good times. Paddling in the shallow shallows. Orange binoculars. Early Learning Centre police tabard. Baseball cap. Hoofing up your shorts. Living your best life.

I love you.

‘Did anything strange or startling happen today?’

I’ve been in awe over the last couple of days watching the depth of support for the idea of a lorry named after LB unfold in response to a tweet by Eddie Stobart asking for ideas for names. Some background can be found here. If you search for Connor Sparrowhawk on Twitter there are literally hundreds of tweets ‘voting’ for him. It’s truly extraordinary. Particularly the spread of tweeters; learning disabled people, self advocates, parents, siblings and other family members, medics, social workers, the police, tv producers, film makers, social care directors, academics, activists, MPs, a shadow Minister, human rights experts, senior execs from NHS Trusts, regulators and third sector organisations.

My dad used to come home from work just after 5pm every day when we were pups and always ask my mum ‘Did anything strange or startling happen today?’ before giving her a kiss. I’m not sure it ever did to be honest.

This has been strange and startling. With an equally brilliant background. LB was a huge Eddie Stobart fan. We’ve a trunk of memorabilia and bits scattered around the house still. He enjoyed nothing more than a trip on a motorway to silently and beautifully enjoy Eddie spotting in solitude. When Edward Stobart died, he wanted to express his sadness online.

LB’s auntie Sam contacted Eddie Stobart in August 2013, a month after he died, to ask for a truck to be named after him. This was the information she sent:

The company again responded sensitively:

Dear Sam,
Thanks for your email.  Due to the Stobart tradition of naming trucks after females we are unable to name a vehicle after Connor however we have wracked our brains and if you felt it was appropriate we could include a tribute piece in the next edition of Spot On the members magazine. If this was interest please could you send me a photo of Connor. I look forward to hearing from you.
Kind regards, Bonnie
Sam sent this photo of Connor and Rosie flagging up that the sweatshirt might be a pirate version.

[I don’t know if this was an authentic Eddie sweatshirt but it features in the top photo almost unrecognisably. The unit excelled in boiling and shrinking clothes.]

Some of the tweets in support of naming a cab after Connor have referred to social justice and what such a decision would signify for a typically marginalised group of people who are too often denied an opportunity to lead anything approaching a flourishing life. Wendy Greenberg captured this:


It’s within the gift of the Eddie Stobart company to balance the justice scales a little bit and generate warmth, delight and priceless joy to have a ‘Connor Sparrowhawk’ cab beetling around the motorways of the UK and abroad. I can’t even begin to imagine making sense of what this would mean for us amidst the horror of the last six years. Connor never stopped reaching for the stars [his family tree produced by the unit psychologist included Dappy and Tulisa from his beloved NDubz on the sibling line]. The idea of a lorry named after him is the stuff of dreams. It would further be a cracking reminder for health and social care staff (and others) of the importance, value and brilliance of people like Connor.

I hope you can do this. Looking at the hundreds of replies to your request for names Connor is belting it out of the park with little or no competition.

“A one off” and a week that was…

This has been a right old week. A week of something. Stuff. A maelstrom of emotions and some fucking shite. Tuesday involved a serious schlep to London. First stop a British Association of Social Work conference at their newly opened building in Kentish Town. A talk and run jobby. I was first on. Safeguarding and human rights: what do families need from social work? What do we need? Easy peas:

Thoughtfulness, understanding, knowledge, integrity,

action, transparency and honesty.

The questions were a joy and included “What music did LB like?” I legged it to Westminster to meet with Caroline Dinenage (Minister for State for Health and Social Care). We had a chewy discussion around learning disability/autism related issues together with the lead bod from the Department of Health. I left feeling (surprisingly) heartened that Caroline D has heart, grit and determination.

Sticking around for my next gig, I went up to the public gallery to watch some of May’s brexit debate. The last time I was up in that cosy gallery was watching Evan Harris, then Oxford Lib Dem MP, deliver something about learning disability right back in the day. I remember painting a slogan on a tired old sheet on the kitchen floor one evening and waiting with the large banner at the wrong bus stop outside the Thornhill Park and Ride. Relieved when a mini bus hesitantly pulled over and welcomed me in. The first time I hooked up with My Life My Choice members.

Funny old world.

It was grotesquely mesmerising to watch the non-debate ‘live’ in the Commons. I then headed to Committee Room 10 for the INQUEST launch of Legal Aid for Inquests: Now or Never! campaign. Despite political distractions the room was packed with over 40 bereaved families, members of both Houses, journalists and third sector representatives. Bishop James did a sensitive and exemplary job of chairing a passionate and angry meeting. Three of us – Tanya El-Keria whose daughter Amy died in the Priory and Tellicia whose brother Kevin Clarke died after being restrained by police in London – spoke before the Minister of Justice, Lucy Frazer, responded. She didn’t shine. Trying to defend the government’s baffling refusal to introduce automatic legal aid for families at inquests despite weighty evidence was never going to work.

A summary of the launch by Hardeep Matharu is here. Despite the lacklustre performance by Frazer, captured on each face below, the sincerity, determination and rage in the room was palpable. Labour shadow minister Richard Burgon pledged to reform funding for state related deaths and there was a strong feeling that this is a battle that will (so fucking rightly) be won.

Then to Thursday and the re-opening of the disciplinary hearing into Valerie Murphy’s (LB’s psychiatrist) disciplinary hearing. She had been suspended for 12 months after a marathon hearing that stretched over seven months. She wasn’t struck off partly because of the ‘mitigating circumstances’ of working in the field of learning disability [I know]. Her catastrophic failings covered pretty much every bit of clinical practice. Including the very basics of epilepsy care.

This particular ‘medical’ note haunts me. Not just because it captures her clinical ineptitude. The wording reminds me of commentary about rare or endangered animals.

Evidence of how deeply LB was failed is written into and stamped across pretty much every communication captured during the 107 days he spent in that place and in every review since. The saddest piece of ‘new’ info that emerged from the original hearing for me, was that Murphy didn’t go on holiday until the Saturday after LB was admitted on the Tuesday night (March 19 2013).

We naively assumed she was on leave when he was admitted which is why she didn’t meet him until almost mid-April. She simply didn’t bother to wander over and see a young man admitted in a state of intense crisis before her two week holiday.

This is a tormented sadness (not the right words but no appropriate words exist). She was clearly so fucking crap that it didn’t ‘matter’ when she met him. [I struggle to type these words]. It really didn’t matter.

I can’t (I refuse to) shake off the puzzlement and heartache of how a specialist learning disability (responsible) clinician could ignore a newly admitted patient knowing she was about to go on leave for two weeks. My work doesn’t affect people’s lives/health but I prepare for holiday absence and colleagues do the same. I can’t understand why or how she could do this. [And before the thankfully small portion of medic defenders start with ‘she was so busy’ shite she wasn’t. There were four other patients.]

Murphy pitched up in Manchester yesterday with her potpourri of dry and smelly bits to woo the panel. They swallowed it and decided her fitness to practice was no longer impaired. Her abysmal non care of LB was a “one off”. No questions asked about how this could possibly be or (as chillingly) if it was, why?

The panel in a fuck you statement announced that ‘a reasonable and well informed member of the public’ would agree with their decision to find Murphy not impaired.

They are wrong.

It’s impossible to articulate the intense distress and harm these hearings generate for bereaved families. I understand they are stressful and distressing for health or social care professionals. I get that. As bad as professionals may feel, they typically go home to their families though. They don’t live with an intense pain that defies articulation, loss and an absence that regularly winds, wounds, generates panic, anxiety or worse. They don’t desperately try to hold onto the smells temporarily woven into clothing, visit the earthy spaces where their children are buried or scattered, and regularly howl at the sky.

They simply don’t.

Finally, two brighter developments. As the week unfolded, I missed a call out on twitter about the naming of Eddie Stobart lorries and the brilliant and collective responses to this captured by @Karachrome in this post. I can only imagine what an Eddie Stobart lorry named after LB would mean.

And this morning Julia Unwin mentioned LB in her keynote talk at the Nuffield Trust annual Health Policy Summit. The magic, the joy, the fucking kick ass ‘we can do this’ collective action continues.

Let’s do it.

Crocodile tears and the ‘do nothing’ advice

Early morning, a column by Clare Gerada appeared in my twitter timeline. Gerada is an ex-chair of the Royal College of GPs so no fly by night. She campaigns (as part of a heavily, heavily NHS England funded gig ‘Practitioner Health’) about doctors’ mental health. This week there has been coverage of doctor suicides with some loose reporting of figures (there were 81 suicides not 430*). Gerada is trying to extend the Practitioner Health service beyond London.

I dunno. You can sit on either side of the fence, or on it. As is too often the case with the NHS following the dosh is an instructive exercise.

‘Sensible advice’ say some replies to Gerada’s column. ‘Best advice I’ve ever seen…’

The heading kind of made my eyes water. Those blooming tears. Still.

Do nothing… immediately.’ I can only now imagine this ‘luxury’ over the past five years. There is no space to ‘Do nothing… immediately‘ for families. We face years of unrelenting, unremitting fighting, policing, and uncovering. Pretty much every NHS related scandal is the outcome of persistent, committed and astonishing actions by families and their allies. Activity that allows no downtime in a grief drenched space.

‘Do nothing… immediately’

‘When a complaint lands on your desk…’ says Gerada. Deliberately disembodying the ‘complaint’ from the person making it. And the space in which it materialises.

The person (human) who probably never dreamed of making a ‘complaint’ to the NHS. I mean why would you? Why would any of us**? It’s a national institution. A treasure. Free healthcare at the point of delivery and all that…

How often do we actually make a complaint about stuff? About trains, airlines, education, retail outlets, telecoms, restaurants? Why would any of us want to make an official complaint against the NHS? What would make us feel driven do this? Complaints in any setting are important for improving service. Complaints in the NHS are crucial because they involve lives.

For Gerada the complaint isn’t delivered or received. It ‘lands’ on the workspace. Disconnected from action and intent. Allowing her to (brutally) focus solely on the practitioner.

‘Do nothing’, she advises. ‘If you can, take the rest of the day off.’ Take the rest of the day off…

‘Do not rant and rave…’ I still can’t understand why the assumed position of a medic would be to rant and ‘rave’ about a complaint. Getting a 3/5 mark on student evaluations is enough to cause some right old soul searching/scrutiny of our learning and teaching practice at work (even after 10 years). The idea we would leap straight to defence of our practice – to ranting and raving – is baffling.

‘Wait for the first waves of shock to pass…’ Still no consideration of the person or family who made the complaint. Of what they may be experiencing; their pain, distress, grief. The piece descends into a google translate type extract. Clunky. Missing meaning. Swerving on substance. With the odd hand grenade planted between platitudes: ‘At the earliest opportunity contact your medical defence organisation (even if the complaint is trivial)’.

In short, Gerada’s advice seems to be ignore the substance of the complaint, buggar off for the rest of day and get your legal defence ducks in line. She ends with ‘don’t suffer in silence and don’t take it personally’.

Wow. Just extraordinary ‘advice’.

She has previous on complaining.

And clearly remains obdurate on the subject. A road traffic accident… From last night.

What I don’t understand is why there remains little critical (in a good way) and open questioning of what is clearly shite and offensive advice by medics. It’s as if once harm has happened or been done, the drawbridge is raised and the profession becomes a pack.

Where is the thought, the reflection. Humility. Or challenge?

*This is in no way to dismiss, belittle or otherwise every health professional who has died.

** For the sake of transparency, I made a complaint to Southern Health NHS Trust when LB was in the unit. I said they didn’t listen to my concerns about his care. About 5 days before he drowned in the bath I was told it was not upheld.

Sharks on the rooftops

I went for a wander round Headington late afternoon earlier. In part to practice taking photos with my new camera and because I remain so blooming upset/agitated by the description of LB in the NMC hearing ‘determination of (un)facts’. How dare a fucking ‘panel’ of a nurse and two lay people who never met LB and have done nothing to try to understand anything about him be so callously disrespectful of who he was.

No doubt they will argue their determination is based on evidence but evidence is not statements like so and so ‘seems to suggest that…’

Distressing, unnecessary and cruel.

In the late afternoon sun I wandered past the Co-op where LB smashed doing the shopping back in the day. Still makes me chuckle. On to Posh Fish, a go-to chippy for 20 years though our visits have dropped to rarely as the kids have grown older. My mum and dad took Rosie, Tom and LB there for some nosh on the day of my viva at Warwick in 2006. Rich and I pitched up later to have a celebratory beer with them. Such a joyful day. Posh Fish rocked. Reach for the stars stuff it seemed at the time.

Sharks on the rooftops.

Then round to the other Headington shark. The one we used to go and look at when the kids were tots. Rosie was convinced for years it had been a fish and chip shop. I think maybe as a way of trying to make sense of an enormous shark apparently falling head first from the sky through the roof of a terraced house.

At the end of the shark road is the funeral home LB was in before his funeral. Well in and out of because of the balls up over his post mortem. Behind the side window is the ‘viewing room’ or chapel of rest. It’s just a room really but a room completely and devastatingly not like any other room.

[For geography nerds, the John Radcliffe Hospital is up the road there on the left.]

As I waited to cross the road directly opposite a coach went passed blocking my view. Oh my…

Angel Executive Travel. No.fucking.way.

This coach passed me on the day of LB’s funeral. Walking in distress and agitation in the park across the road (the same road). A different type/flavour/density? of distress and agitation.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or punch the air.

I’m taking air punching.

At the end of a week in which professional sharks (not our local fun and quirky ones) have once again been circling for blood and behaving like fucking spunktrumpetweeblewarblers we’re not going to let LB’s memory be sullied in a crass, ill-informed and deeply biased report.

On Friday we’re back to London to fight the fucking fight that never, ever seems to end; to try to establish the humanity of our fun, quirky and beautiful children.

A death anniversary distraction. In two Acts.

LB’s five year ‘death anniversary’ is slowly, oh so slowly, approaching. A now familiar tangle of dread, sadness, unexpected tears, and more sadness. With a sort of ‘five year’ incomprehensible label slapped on it. I’ve been snappy, irritable, weary, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. Sad. So fucking sad. Tomorrow is five years to the day I last saw LB alive. I’ve been obsessively counting back for the last couple of weeks. Dipping into my blog to see the slow denouement captured in what was ‘real’ time at the time.

I’ve learned that death anniversary distractions are important, and almost impossible to identify in advance.

Act 1

On Saturday I had a meeting with the INQUEST Family Reference Group to talk about a new photography project they’re plotting. It was held in Lauderdale House, Highgate. I caught the Oxford Tube to London in the morning, reflecting on past journeys with LB (all hilarious). I functionally picked and plotted my way across London using a combination of Google Maps and my Oyster card. Hot, hot and hotter. Notting Hill to Tottenham Court. Out of the Northern Line steam bake to brilliant sunshine at Archway. The 20 summat bus up Highgate Hill.

I got off in one of those ‘drops of paradise’ spaces that exist in pockets around London. A beautiful, old white house on the edge of Waterlow Park. Parkland, lakes, a wild meadow, dips, low hills and easy like summer sunshine activity. BBQs, blankets, bunting and laughter.

The meeting was productive, moving and over (for me) by early afternoon. Walking back to the station I suddenly wondered how close Highgate Cemetery was. A cheeky Google in the shade showed it was a mile diagonally across the park.

Highgate Cemetery. Two sites divided by a road. The West side was guided tour only. The tour was about to start.

The next 70 mins was an exemplar in grief anniversary distraction. Stunning, idiosyncratic, unexpected, mystical, and enormous. Deliciously cool, green and death related. I devoured names, dates and stories on gravestones and learned various death nuggets.

A broken pillar signifies a death cut short.

After the tour I wandered round the more tamed east side of the cemetery, clocked Marx’s tomb and others before heading home. Distraction job unexpectedly and brilliantly sorted.

Act II

We’ve got a velux window above the sink in the kitchen which has hosted a false black widow spider (FBWS) for weeks, maybe months, now. High up in the corner. Balanced with kick ass authority in a tangled, sort of mussy looking cotton wool web set up. We’ve discussed this spider with vague concern (me and Tom) while it’s grown chunkier.

I’m not a close up spider fan. I regularly peer up to make sure it’s showing no dropping down signs when I’m at the sink.

This afternoon a small party of flies and one if those look-alikey wasp things were mashing it up in the window space. At one point the wasp flew directly into FBWS corner.

‘Christ’, I thought grimly, ‘game over’. After a determined shake with some sass, it pinged free and bounced to the other side of the window.

I got the mop handle. This wasp deserved to live. Within seconds, I’d opened the window and it flew free. I went back to the kitchen table to chop some lettuce and felt the lightest tickle my neck. Yelp (yep), flick and leg it to the living room to tell Rich. Let’s just say he was underwhelmed.

I returned to the chopping board.

Movement on the tea towel on the bench below caught my eye. The spectacular, shiny, brilliantly skull decorated FBWS.

I did a mangled scream/shout/’oh my fucking god’ holler combo [I know]. Rich immediately captured the spider in a plastic cup and took it outside.

“Are you sure you got it?!” I asked, “I mean how the hell did it get across the kitchen like that? Did it… [shudder] jump?”

“You do know it’s nearly the end of one of the most exciting World Cup matches so far..?” he replied.

Life.

Death.

Distraction.

Five years and four months

Time.

Approaching five years since LB died has been weighing heavily. Five years. Half a decade. Mostly taken up with a brutal fight for accountability. Leaving us barely standing at times. Irreparable, inexcusable damage and destruction.

Five years.

Five years since I last hung out with, touched, talked with, loved with my eyes as well as my heart, my beautiful, extraordinary boy.

Five years.

The Williams Review

Today the rapid policy review ‘Gross Negligence Manslaughter in Healthcare’ report by Norman Williams was published. Four months in the making. A ‘rapid policy’ route. Four months…

Four months.

Four months of hearing from ‘many individuals and organisations. Bereaved families, healthcare professionals and their representative bodies, regulators, lawyers, investigatory and prosecutorial authorities, as well as members of the public…’

A review conducted, written, signed, stamped and published within four months.

Four months.

Shorter than the length of time NHS England sat on the leder review before sneakily publishing it in May.

Four months.

And five years.

#bastards

Dancing around death…

Ben Morris, the STATT unit manager, was suspended for 12 months today at the beginning of the Nursing and Midwifery Council hearings. He admitted 17 charges and ‘accepted his fitness to practise as a nurse is impaired because of his past, serious misconduct’. I read the consensual panel determination (a 43 page document capturing the charges, admission of guilt and the now typically late to the table remorse) over the weekend.

More pieces added to the map of we’ll never ever know.

Morris offered no explanation as to why he didn’t do the things he should have done (other than ‘working’ beyond his skill set). He didn’t blame anyone.

The shadowy figures of clinical commissioners and Oxfordshire County Council dance around the edges of these documents. Again.

Quality reviews screaming ‘ACT NOW’.

Ignored.

Why the fuck didn’t you do something?

No engagement. No interest. No care.

Hollow, brutal and public erasure of humanity.

#Leder review