WE are not machines. Or, if we are, then we are the most complicated machines in the universe.

This view, it seems to me, has come to the fore in the Covid crisis.

What I mean is this. If I have a problem with my motorbike, I take it to the garage.

Now I don’t care if they talk to it sweetly or not. I’m not bothered if they make it nice and comfy and warm.

I couldn’t give two hoots as to whether they inform all the previous owners that there is a problem and it might not be fixable. I just want them to fix it.

Not so with us! Of course, we want skilled medics to do the surgery and professionals who know how to operate the machinery.

And we definitely want to be fixed if at all possible.

But we want so much more than that. We want to be kept informed of how things are going; we want our anxieties to be understood by staff; we want our relatives and those we love to be kept updated on how we are doing.

We will have worries and concerns that we would like addressing. This was the case with Tim who rang from abroad.

His mother was in hospital after a stroke. His other brother was in another far-flung country.

Tim was getting frustrated at not being able to get his phone calls to the ward answered.

And so, at silly-O’clock in the morning, switchboard put him through to me.

I listened. I empathised.

Doesn’t sound like much does it?

Perhaps it isn’t but at times I heard his voice crack as he was talking to me.

Later that day Tim emailed me to say that the ward has set up a Facetime call with his mum and said: “You don’t know how much talking to you really helped.”

Strange isn’t it? I didn’t do anything but listen.

I didn’t fix the situation. I was just there and hope that I was able to make a person-to-person connection which made a difference.