The Clinical Incident

Throughout the ages, small pieces of paper have changed the lives of millions of people. Voting slips. Eviction notices. Parking fines.

But these pale in comparison to the sheet of paper that rules the NHS with an iron fist. It's the Mao Tse Tung of the written word. The Joseph Stalin of A4. It's known as "The Clinical Incident Form".

It's supposed to be a routine thing, a little message to the hospital managers when something's gone wrong. It's supposed to help minimise the chances of the same mistake being made twice.

Like any well-intentioned bureaucratic device allowed out into the real world, it's grown into something very different. Nurses now brandish The Clinical Incident Form as a weapon. Forgot to write up fluids? They could end your career with a well-filled out page 1. Did you wash your hands just out of sight of the "Handwashing Audit" team, losing the ward valuable "points? You better get ready to be Formed.

Even though the worst that can happen is a mild-mannered email from Risk Management, getting the Form feels something like getting a sexually-transmitted infection. You don't want either of them, and they both tend to come from a nurse you'd rather not wake up with more than once.

The pen-pushing culture is running riot at the moment. Must be something to do with waking up in the dark and having to wear a proper winter coat in the mornings. We were brutally wrenched from the wards earlier this week, dedicating an entire morning to talking about "diversity in the NHS". This was considered more important - and thus worthy of more teaching time - than something rare and of little clinical use, like how to deal with a heart attack.

Once again, I fear that our superiors haven't quite got the hang of how to say NO to the Department of Health and its bizarre priorities. Surely that should be a Clinical Incident?