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BMJ 2007;335:306 (11 August), doi:10.1136/bmj.39300.420116.59
Des Spence, general practitioner, Glasgow
destwo@yahoo.co.uk
| The first 150 words of the full text of this article appear below. |
I sighed. Glasgow's tower blocks, heavy skies, and the sprawling postwar housing schemes that aimed to offer a better life than did the inner city slums disappeared in my rear view mirror. We headed for a better life in rural Suffolk, where I had taken up a GP partnership. The move from the electoral wards with the shortest life spans in Britain to those with the longest was just an eight hour drive. All my training, however, had not prepared me for the reality of general practice.
Fifty consultations every day, five house calls at lunchtime, call-outs in the midst of surgery, 7 pm finishes, Saturday morning surgeries that ran till 3 pm. But I considered myself lucky, for the fledgling out of hours cooperatives had freed us from the 24 hour commitment that had crushed previous generations. I struggled, suffering near constant chest pain induced by stress. This was
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