Just call me Jennifer Ennis. I’m sure that’s who the world thinks I am with all these hurdles that are being put in front of me. It started when I received the letter, inviting me for an interview for the Band 6 position on the ward. When I say ‘interview’, what I really mean is ‘interrogation’. Not satisfied that us mere mortals should sweat for a solid hour through a traditional interview, the powers that be have decided that selection of the fittest should consist of an assessment centre – whatever that means. Once I’d peeled myself off the ceiling, I went in search of Matt who is usually the voice of reason. Unfortunately, not this time. I’m sure he took my place on the ceiling.  He’d got his Band 6 position late last year and hadn’t had to jump through hoops this size. We looked at it together to try to decipher the size of this task. There would be a written assessment, based on a fictitious patient, to test my clinical skills. Then there was the role pla...

This has been melt-down week for me, that’s for sure. In usual Florence style, I haven’t listened to any of the wise words of those around me; Steve, Matt, Carla – even my wise old Mum, and I’ve tried to keep all those plates spinning in the air. It was only a matter of time before one or two of them whizzed off into the ozone, never to be seen again. The first plate to fall was the one holding the wedding dress (it would be, wouldn’t it?). I thought I’d been clever, keeping in touch with the bridal shop via email so that I had a clear record of what we’d discussed. I’d kept them in the loop with my weight loss and we’d arranged for a fitting last weekend. My mother was beside herself with excitement and insisted on coming with me, so that she could give me an ‘honest opinion’. She hadn’t seen the dress that I’d chosen up to that point as I knew she would choose me a nice big meringue number if she had her way, so I was expecting a whole bagful of criticism for the simple, flowin...