As the Chancellor plans tax cuts, and the Tories ignore the plight of millions who can scarcely afford to live whilst threatening to give bankers their bonuses back, and as the beleaguered National Health Service sees disillusioned and overworked staff leaving in droves, and as we squander public millions on vastly-inflated ceremonial nonsense (whilst letting Charles off from paying hundreds of millions in inheritance tax), I remembered this poem that I first read during my horrid night in A&E in May 2020 during my first bout of cellulitis, at the height of the first frightening wave of the pandemic. I was treated with such love and care that I printed off the poem (on some nice paper!) and gave it to the hospital department that treated me. It's by Michael Rosen and it's called These Are The Hands:

These are the hands
That touch us first
Feel your head
Find the pulse
And make your bed.

These are the hands
That tap your back
Test the skin
Hold your arm
Wheel the bin
Change the bulb
Fix the drip
Pour the jug
Replace your hip.

These are the hands
That fill the bath
Mop the floor
Flick the switch
Soothe the sore
Burn the swabs
Give us a jab
Throw out sharps
Design the lab.

And these are the hands
That stop the leaks
Empty the pan
Wipe the pipes
Carry the can
Clamp the veins
Make the cast
Log the dose
And touch us last.


I've read a lot about how the Queen has "served" the country. Well when I read this poem, and remember the amazing way I was treated at the hospital a couple of years ago as well as last week, I think I understand a lot better what real service is.