Look, I’ll admit. I watch Holby every week, and I’m a devoted fan of Sue’s blog, but I’m counting down the days until Henrik Hanssen is back in the captain’s chair on the bridge, or wherever the person in charge of this hospital keeps everything running smoothly. Selfie is a vain, inept twonk, and I don’t like it when there are staffing shortages and confusion over shift patterns, however fictional. Jonny can be irksome at times, but it’s preposterous that he should be on remand awaiting trail for murder. Great that it transpires at the end of the episode that Jac is paying for a high-class defence team for him (as well as supporting Elliott’s Kibo development. She must have a hell of a salary), but I’m not sure why he couldn’t get bail, neither do I understand why he has no memory of explaining how to change the battery of the ‘Kibo’ to the memory-deficient partner of the patient who died.
And talking of Kibo. I know we’re supposed to suspend disbelief that the kindly (and adorable, of course) Professor, apparently powered-by-donut, Elliott Hope, is a brilliant inventor of lifesaving devices, but was it just me who found the plastic sandwich bag inflated by a straw didn’t quite cut it as believable as a piece of medical genius?
Other plot lines this week – one benighted family are spread over three wards, each with different and distressing medical crises. Mother (heart problems – recipient of the balloon/straw sandwich bag device technique), plus autistic son and rugby-playing daughter.
The daughter is treated on Sacha’s ward of anal warts and other gastro-intestinal problems, by the adorable, but sadly less than fragrant (and cruelly nicknamed by evil genius Dom ‘vomit boy’ this week) Digby. We see him dithering about his medical future, as he attempts to summon sympathy and a supportive bedside manner, by relating memories of bad games lessons, where his genius for strategy was never truly appreciated by his rugby teacher.
Digby’s on “a journey” (at which point I vomit) that will end in a GI speciality, you mark my words.
And then we have the Posh story. “Hero” Harry Tressler, apparently wearing an empty chocolate box wrapper to hide his poor, broken cheekbones after last week’s window cleaning hoist heroism, has two women in conflict at his side. The lovely NHS-powered MC v Posh’s Hermes-scarf-wearing mother, who clearly believes medicine is only clinically effective if you pay top whack for it, trying to whisk her son away to a private clinic. I was going to say fictional, then I remembered it all is. She seems to feel that the surgeon who tried to end her son’s career (Raf) isn’t necessarily best placed to save his life. MC, Fletch and the rest of us who watch Holby know better, obv, and they/we are proved right. Raf saves Posh’s sight. Hurrah for the NHS! And it’s sweet that MC and Harry end up with a tender moment, and not just because of his bruises.
Plot-wise, Jonny’s cruel porridge means his adorable daughter Emma (and, my how she’s growing up fast) gets a cuddle from Elliott and Mo, and to sit on the knee of her hitherto absent mummy Jac. And that was a smashing ending.
Now, where’s Hanssen?
Posted by @MsEmma Chaplin