Somewhere along the way "busy" became a badge of honour in healthcare. Full diaries. Waiting lists. Out-of-office auto-replies explaining just how important you are in that wonderfully pas-agg font.
I never quite got that. If someone needed help, we found a way.
Yes - that meant replying from a beach. Sunburnt. Slightly sandy and pretending I wasn't technically "off". Or being at a party, three piña coladas deep, when someone says: "Sorry to be a pain but can I ask you about my knee?"
And you know what? I'd be genuinely delighted. Five minutes of chat. A calm steer on the possibles and probables. Far better than any late-night spiral with a sober Dr Google.
What does make me twitch slightly are the words: "Can you just give me a few exercises?" If it were that simple, I'd run fifteen-minute pub clinics and charge full whack between the pork scratchings.
Access doesn't mean trivial. It means judgement. Knowing when reassurance is enough and when it's time to book in properly.
The best bosses, physios and docs I've known aren't hard to reach. Not because they're saints - because they're secure enough not to need the theatre of scarcity.
No one has ever thanked a clinician for having a three-week waiting list. But I can guarantee they remember the one who replied. That's the premium service.