On 31^st December 1999, I was at a New Year’s Eve party proudly wearing my plastic tattoo choker necklace (painful but worth it as it gave me that Goth youthful edge that I was hanging on to) with an array of pastel butterfly clips in my hair. My baggy pants, blue eyeshadow, crop top and worn-in Doctor Martens had been carefully put together. The fact that the boots were worn-in was important so that I could dance all night to the cheesy tunes, including Steps with ‘Better the Devil you Know’ and Five’s ‘Keep on Movin’ (no g – very important).

This was no ordinary New Year’s Eve; we were anxious. As the clock struck 12, we waited nervously to see what would happen next. We’d been warned about it for years: the Millennium Bug. It was time.

As it turned out, nothing happened.

We had to wait another 25 years and a few months for the type of bug we’d expected to hit that night – 19^th July 2024, to be precise.

It had been a good morning. I was up at 6am, the sun was shining and this was my last day in work, then I would be off for a whole week. I walked into work with home-baked banana bread, which even Miserable Margaret couldn’t resist, and looked forward to a clear day with no meetings, no distractions, no plans. That would mean I could finish everything (well, you know, not everything… as if) and could set off for my annual leave feeling relaxed (ish). It was 7.30am and I had ten and a half hours to get it all done.

7.31am – her lip curling in one corner, with a slight sneer and a look of ‘you’re going to hate this’, Miserable Margaret says: “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?” I say, smiling at her with my ‘you won’t bring me down’ expression.

“EMIS isn’t working, not just EMIS, but the whole world.” Her enjoyment of the pain she knows this will inflict on me is evident in her glistening eyes.

I calmly put the banana bread down, as my head begins to process that this isn’t going to be the calm day I’d predicted, and walk into my office. I try to log into the clinical system without any luck. I go to my usual source of knowledge for up-to-date news – Facebook (what else?) – and find out that the world’s IT systems seem to have imploded.

One by one, staff start arriving and each one comes to gaze at me, nonplussed. “What shall we do?”

I’ve been a manager long enough to be able to get into combat mode calmly and, dare I say, even efficiently. For some reason, every time I tell staff to open up their business continuity icon, they look at me like I’ve just spoken to them in Mandarin.

When I start handing out paper consultations, they stare at me as if I’m about to torture them. “She expects us to write?” I hear them mutter. I don’t actually; I email them all an electronic copy but the paper is a back-up back-up.

I then inform them that paper scripts are available and get the stamp out, to which there are more whispers and grumbles. Manual repeat prescription slips are made available and the HCA proudly advises us that we can write on the blood forms and complete these by hand. We even download some cervical screening manual forms. We use Teams to communicate, update our website, our phone message and our noticeboards. We get on it.

You’d think everyone would be ecstatic by now; we’re a well-oiled machine; we’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got. I’m proud that our business continuity plan has worked.

Everyone else isn’t.

“What am I supposed to do with patients?” Dr Roger asks.

“See them,” I say.

“How?” he retorts.

“Like you usually do. Do what you can do safely with the information you’ve got.”

He looks at me suspiciously. He and the rest of the team thought we might have to close or at least have an easier day.

The receptionists begin to hint, from about 8.10am onwards, that they may as well be sent home. I hear them talking loudly about having done some mandatory training in November 2023 when they didn’t actually get the time back (they did!) and they suggest even more loudly that they could take that time back now.

The patients aren’t grateful either.

“Why can’t I order my prescription today?”

“I’m afraid it’s impossible because we can’t access your record.”

“But why?”

“Because we can’t access your record.”

“But why?”

“Have you watched the news?”

“Yes, but I DIDN’T think it’d affect GPs!”

Of course, it also has to be the HOTTEST day of the year and it seems that the many air-conditioning units are making no difference to the temperature at all. It feels like we’re walking through a hairdryer’s warm blast and, talking of that, I could do with those butterfly clips right now as my hair has risen into a frizzy halo of defiance.

The pressure is mounting; the world has basically stopped, so the staff think their world should stop too.

Then I remember. It’s Friday. I feel sick. It’s Pizza Friday. Once, when I was new, I forgot about Pizza Friday. Miserable Margaret wrote me a letter of complaint on ‘behalf’ of all the receptionists. They’d felt let down and neglected. Who knew mozzarella held such power?

My hands shake as I click on the app. I expect the circle of doom, but it allows me to get to the order page. I click on the pizzas on offer, ensuring I don’t make the same error as last week when I inadvertently ordered three Veggie Sizzlers instead of a BBQ Chicken (I received a curt Teams message telling me that the staff DON’T like vegetables). The nerves are kicking in; I’m convinced the app will freeze at some point, but surprisingly I get through to the check-out page and include some nachos for good measure. The order has gone through! Despite the world being on pause, dough-based delights are on their way to the practice and I can now provide the good news to everyone.

“The pizzas have been ordered,” I proudly type into our Teams group message, “and I’ve ordered some nachos too as a treat.”

I receive 16 thumbs up and a few pizza emojis.

With that, I look around and the mood has changed. My team are happy; they’re chatting with each other and eating some banana bread. The day is different; the GPs are in and out, the nurses are sociable, even the patients are accepting the situation. Everyone is relaxed and it reminds me of the early days of the pandemic – somehow, people in a crisis often are nicer to each other.

I shut my usual ‘open door’ and take five minutes out. I turn the air-conditioning up and remind myself that even in the midst of the biggest technological disaster of living time, pizza will always save the day.

PM Polly