IF ANY of you are thinking of being ill in the future I offer some advice: ensure that you are fit and well in advance.

Take a course in medicine, negotiating skills, diplomacy, queuing, administration and telephone sales. It would be helpful, too, to be married to a saint. One who can drive (at night), wipe down filthy surfaces, produce nutritious, life-saving food from about her person, as well as slings and dressings, and can help you feel that you are not alone in your battle against the system, or lack of it. You will need all this to cope with the National Health Service.

Don't get me wrong. I am not one of those people you hear saying: "I paid my taxes, I am entitled."

It is obvious to anyone that the figures don't add up. Think of it as architecture. We all know that it is cheaper and more efficient to live in a new house. Old houses need constant repair and maintenance and there comes a point where, unless they are of special historic interest, they are best pulled down and we start again. The difference being so much of the health service is derelict, of no interest, and dry rot in the body, rather than the roof, can be fatal.

I have been asking nurses and doctors what made them go in to medicine. After all they are clever and could have done pretty well anything. The answers are varied but usually include a personal anecdote about illness in the family, an affinity with science and a desire to work with people. What they don't talk about is the burning urge to spend most of their day working with half-baked equipment, among systems designed by goodness knows who, suffering the abuse of the public, and with the grim thought of accountability hanging over their heads.

Mr Brain is suffering from all those ailments that affect someone who is lucky enough to reach 85. We await an appointment for an operation. All that stands between us and the date is a 'misplaced' file. In this technological age his future lies in finding a grotty pink folder containing inconsequential scraps of paper floating somewhere in a black hole in Cheltenham. They say they will phone back. They never do.

I haven't asked our clever, caring and over-worked GP why he became a doctor. But I am sure the answer won't be to sit most of the day hearing patients with the same depressing story.