I watched Nye, the National Theatre’s hit show about Aneurin Bevan, the former Labour MP for Ebbw Vale and his fight to found a national health service, twice. Both times it left me feeling a bit queasy. Bevan is a mighty working-class hero. Probably no other minister, even in that 1945 government of heroes, would have had the vision, the muscle or the sheer energy to make a national health service happen at all in those bleak postwar years, let alone in a way that no incoming government could unpick.
The NHS sits at the heart of politics and for most of my career in journalism, and charting the crises, the numbers, the arguments, the possibilities and the costs was a staple of my work. You can write all that, you can read about all that, but it can feel very different when events dictate that you cross the line from commentator to patient; when, like me, you pitch up as someone who arrives as an emergency, with a condition that might require major surgery and at least a week of post-operative hospital care – or might just go away of its own accord.
