The new generation of doctors fighting for future of their careers

We wore white coats. A sort of symbol of being a doctor. I wasn’t. At least I wasn’t yet a doctor. I would be. But not yet.

- Dr Ali A Smith

We pushed beds down the middle of the road. It was London and the roads were busy. Traffic held. Not obviously annoyed. The horns were more about support than they seemed to be about irritation. We were protesting.

It was the first protest march that I attended. Not that I have attended many. But this was the late 1980s and we were protesting about Junior Doctor’s working hours.

I didn’t actually have much insight but everyone told me. In fairness, it just seemed like a good idea. Carried by the enthusiasm of others.

Whilst my insight was lacking, the truth of the protest was accurate. At the time, there weren't strikes, just protests. The junior doctors were protesting about hours.

In my early years it wasn’t unusual for me to work more than 100 hours per week.

Most of us lived in the hospital where we worked. It was much easier that way. It was also strangely sociable.

My colleagues were my friends. We were our own support groups. We didn’t really meet many other people. Every now and then I got a weekend off. Leaving felt like escape, usually tinged with guilt.