For those of you lucky enough not to know what a pod is, allow me to quote wikipedia. “Pneumatic tubes are systems that propel cylindrical containers through networks of tubes by compressed air or by partial vacuum.” See also the above handy stock photo. For the purpose of a hospital you put bloods into a container, enter the destination, place the pod in the sending unit, and away it magically flies, making its swift way to the lab for speedy processing.

If, however, pods are something which you have the misfortune of being acquainted with, then dear reader you will know that their planned useful purpose remains something of a wild fantasy, semi-folklore if you will.

I hate the pod system with every fibre of my being. If any blood samples are taken later than mid-morning, which is approximately what time the porter comes round to pick up the ward samples (stuffing them into a large bin bag like a sort of vampirey Santa), then you have the heart sinking realisation that to stand any chance of getting your sample processed you are at the complete mercy of the pods.

My hospital is rather old, and so intelligent design was really not at the forefront of anyone’s mind during construction. This means that I have two pod sending units near me, and if there is a problem with this then the next closest is on the the other side of the fairly large hospital. On my first day of working at the hospital, one of the other doctors offhandedly remarked that “the pods are down”. Foolishly I assumed that this was some kind of catastrophic once-off. In actuality, this is the default that the system runs at.

The first challenge to sending bloods, is of course finding a pod. This is no mean feat. I have on numerous occasions wondered whether I should be bartering my own organs on the black market to try and secure one, but as this has not yet been formally proposed I simply remain open to the option. It took me 2 months of sleuthing to track down the phone number to request more pods, which is almost invariably answered with “I’ll see what I can do”. (Spoiler alert: usually not much).

There are some days though, when I approach the sending station with bated breath, and see to my utter delight that there is a pod! My heart beat quickens, and I can almost feel the heft of the battered plastic container in my hot little hand. My day is made! I can simply send the bloods and return to my other tasks! What joy is this! What efficiency!

But as I reach out to pick up what is surely gold dust in the hospital world, there is a slowly dawning realisation: that the only reason that this pod is still here is because every other doctor before me has been unable to send it. Yep, you guessed it. The pods are down.

I’ve also had the tremendous fortune of being on the ward which actually contains the sending unit, and from a vantage point just inside the doctors’ office you can see the whole drama unfold for all of your hapless colleagues: the ecstasy and unbridled joy, followed by the swift comprehension and the head bowed in defeat.

On the plus side I know the fastest shortcut to get to the lab. I’ve got a promising career as a porter in another life.