Disclaimer
These are personal reflections and not the views of my employer or any professional body. No patient or colleague is identifiable; clinical examples are deliberately generalised, and nothing here constitutes medical advice. Healthcare professionals should prevent avoidable error wherever possible; where errors or near misses occur, the professional expectation is openness, appropriate escalation, learning and improvement—not concealment or blame (NMC, 2024; NHS England, 2025). The blog has been written with the NMC Code and social-media guidance firmly in mind (NMC, 2025a; NMC, 2025b).
From Tennis Courts to Surgical Wards
As detailed in the previous entry, our son had finally returned properly to competitive tennis after cricket had spent most of late spring and early summer stealing his sporting attention.
He was back competing in Taunton.
I, meanwhile, was also making a comeback.
To work.
There were fewer trophies.
After annual leave, German visitors, Cornwall and the brief illusion that life existed outside an NHS hospital, Monday morning arrived, and I returned to Upper GI.
There is something slightly disturbing about returning after leave. You can spend a week believing you are an ordinary human being who goes to beaches, visits castles and occasionally sits down during daylight hours.
Then somebody hands you a patient list.
Within approximately eleven minutes you remember everything.
More importantly, everybody else remembers that you are back.
And therefore emails you.
The Great August Migration
This particular return coincided with one of the NHS’s great annual traditions:
August changeover.
The outgoing Foundation Year 1 doctors were completing their final few days before moving to their next posts and, midway through the week, a collection of new postgraduate doctors arrived.
There was also a new batch of CT1/CT2 doctors joining surgery.
For readers outside the NHS, the surgical hierarchy requires a brief explanation because British postgraduate medical education has accumulated enough abbreviations to conduct a minor military operation.
Following medical school, doctors undertake the two-year Foundation Programme—FY1 followed by FY2—rotating through different specialties. Those pursuing surgery may then enter Core Surgical Training, usually CT1 and CT2. Following successful completion of the required competencies and examinations, trainees can progress into higher specialty surgical training, commonly from ST3 onwards. Specialty training then continues for approximately another six years, although there are alternative pathways, including SAS and locally employed doctor roles (Royal College of Surgeons of England, 2026).
Put considerably more simply:
FY1: “I have graduated from medical school.”
FY2: “I have seen things.”
CT1: “I would like to become a surgeon.”
CT2: “I still would like to become a surgeon.”
Registrar: “Why has nobody booked the CT?”
Consultant: “Why hasn’t anybody called me?”
Upper GI Nurse Practitioner: somehow involved in all five conversations while simultaneously trying to prescribe bariatric vitamins.
It is a beautiful ecosystem.
Is August Changeover Actually Dangerous?
August changeover has acquired an almost mythical reputation within British hospitals.
For decades it has been associated with the dreaded “August effect” or, rather dramatically, “Black Wednesday”—the first Wednesday in August when large numbers of doctors traditionally change jobs simultaneously.
The concerns are not entirely imaginary. Earlier UK research identified signals suggesting increased risk around changeover, and surveys of physicians have historically described substantial concerns regarding disruption, efficiency and patient safety during this period (Vaughan et al., 2011).
But, as so often happens in medicine, the answer becomes considerably less exciting once somebody collects better data.
A large contemporary UK study examining 61,714 acute general surgical admissions found no statistically significant difference in 30-day mortality between changeover and non-changeover periods—2.5% versus 2.6% respectively—and changeover itself was not independently associated with increased mortality (Hughes et al., 2023).
So August Wednesday is perhaps not the NHS equivalent of The Purge after all.
Nevertheless, changeover remains operationally important because entire teams simultaneously lose what organisational science might call situated knowledge.
And what those of us actually working on the ward call:
Knowing how the place works.
The Handbook Nobody Asked Me to Write Until We Needed It
Which is why I needed to put the finishing touches to our Upper GI Handbook.
The philosophy behind the handbook is simple.
Medical school teaches you an enormous amount about medicine.
It does not necessarily teach you which local pathway applies to a particular Upper GI problem, where specific meetings happen, how individual services interact, which postoperative medication our bariatric patients routinely require, whom to contact about pancreatic cyst surveillance, or why a seemingly innocent sentence such as:
“Can you just sort this out?” can consume the remainder of your afternoon.
This distinction between formal knowledge and workplace competence is well recognised in medical education.
Dornan et al. (2007) described clinical workplace learning as an experience-based process in which learners progressively participate in authentic patient care, supported by clinicians and the wider healthcare team. Learning therefore does not simply occur because somebody possesses sufficient theoretical knowledge; it develops through participation, responsibility, observation, interaction and feedback within real clinical environments.
In other words:
Medical school teaches you medicine.
The ward teaches you how medicine actually happens at 16:47 on a Friday.
Those are related subjects. They are not identical.
A newly qualified doctor may know considerably more than me about a biochemical pathway I last studied when Tony Blair was Prime Minister, but I know our Upper GI pathways, which patients need discussing, who needs phoning, and which consultant’s phrase “when you get a minute” does not contain a meaningful temporal component.
That knowledge matters too.
First, Remember Who the Patients Are
There was another small requirement before welcoming everybody.
I needed to ensure that I actually knew who our current patients were.
This sounds considerably worse than it is.
I generally know the Upper GI patients extremely well. However, how deeply I become involved in routine ward work changes depending on the postgraduate doctors rotating through the firm and how experienced and confident they have become.
When you have a strong third-rotation FY1, something interesting happens.
They no longer require somebody checking every routine task.
They can organise the ward work.
They know how to request investigations, chase results, communicate with other teams, prepare discharge work, recognise deteriorating patients and escalate appropriately.
They still need guidance with Upper GI-specific decisions—because why wouldn’t they?—but the basic machinery starts functioning without me standing beside it holding a metaphorical spanner.
That allows me to drift towards the other work I have somehow accumulated over the years.
Clinic letters. Clinic results. Imaging reports. Prescriptions. Bariatric prescriptions. Pancreatic cyst work.
Various requests from different Upper GI-related services.
Emails and more emails.
Things that should have been emails but have instead become telephone calls.
And, naturally, the occasional Upper GI Consultant Side Mission™.
These usually begin with:
“Can you quickly…?” – Nothing following those three words has ever been quick.
Consequently, on days when I step away from routine ward work, I am frequently busier than when I am directly running the ward.
This is one of those wonderful NHS paradoxes.
You reduce your workload by doing more work elsewhere.
A Word About the Outgoing FY1s from this Year
The outgoing FY1 doctors had reached the end of their third rotation.
By that stage they were completely different clinicians from the nervous doctors who had appeared months earlier carrying freshly printed ID badges and the expression of somebody who had recently discovered that being legally allowed to prescribe medication and feeling emotionally prepared to prescribe medication are two entirely different things.
Most were perfectly capable of managing routine ward medicine.
Upper GI specifics occasionally required some gentle steering, but that is entirely expected.
I often tell FY1s something which sounds faintly depressing but is actually intended as a compliment:
This may be the broadest medical knowledge you ever possess.
At graduation you know a little about an astonishing range of medicine.
Cardiology.
Neurology.
Paediatrics.
Psychiatry.
Obstetrics.
Renal medicine.
Respiratory medicine.
Surgery.
And some obscure metabolic disorder you memorised at 2am because somebody once included it in an examination question in 1997.
Then specialisation begins.
Over the following years you become increasingly knowledgeable about progressively smaller areas until, eventually, you are exceptionally qualified to have extremely passionate opinions about one particular anatomical structure.
Which, naturally, is how civilisation advances.
Competence Is Not the Same as Knowing Everything
One of the more important transitions during FY1 is therefore not simply accumulating more factual knowledge.
It is developing clinical judgement:
Knowing what is normal.
Recognising what is not.
Knowing what can wait.
Recognising what absolutely cannot.
Knowing when you can make the decision yourself.
And – arguably more importantly – knowing when somebody more experienced needs to become involved.
That last skill is sometimes underestimated because medicine traditionally rewards knowledge.
Yet safe clinical practice also requires an accurate appreciation of the boundaries of one’s own knowledge.
The NMC Code makes essentially the same requirement of nursing professionals: practitioners must recognise and work within the limits of their competence, seek advice where necessary and raise concerns without delay where patient safety may be compromised (NMC, 2025a).
Competence therefore does not mean:
“I know everything.”
It means:
“I know enough to manage this safely, and I know when I don’t.”
The second half of that sentence probably prevents considerably more harm than the first.
Feedback Should Not Arrive as a Leaving Present
Every cohort contains variation.
Some postgraduate doctors progress incredibly quickly.
Some need more support.
Others develop confidence at different rates or struggle with particular aspects of clinical practice.
That is precisely what postgraduate training is supposed to identify.
Our approach within Upper GI has generally been straightforward:
Give feedback while somebody can still do something with it.
I have never particularly understood the educational value of allowing somebody to struggle for several months and then, during their final week, revealing:
“By the way, you haven’t been doing particularly well.”
Excellent.
Thank you.
Very useful.
I’ll apply that retrospectively.
There is actually a respectable academic basis for this.
Van de Ridder et al. (2008) defined clinical feedback as specific information comparing a trainee’s observed performance with an expected standard, provided with the intention of improving future performance. The crucial word there is future. Feedback is educationally useful because it creates an opportunity to modify subsequent behaviour; delivered at the end of an attachment with no opportunity to demonstrate improvement, it risks becoming little more than an historical review of disappointment.
Good feedback should therefore be timely, specific and based on observable behaviour rather than vague judgements about personality.
If somebody requires additional support, that should be recognised early, discussed constructively and, where appropriate, incorporated into established educational and clinical supervision structures.
Not because anybody wants to “report” somebody.
Because training is supposed to involve training.
A revolutionary concept, admittedly.
Medicine Is Harsh
Medicine is harsh anyway.
Decisions have consequences – Sometimes immediate ones.
You prescribe something.
You request—or don’t request—an investigation.
You decide somebody is well enough to go home.
You decide somebody is not.
You interpret a blood result.
You escalate deterioration.
You don’t escalate deterioration.
Unlike answering an examination question, there isn’t always a helpful mark scheme sitting beside the patient.
And sometimes healthcare professionals get things wrong.
That sentence feels uncomfortable.
Particularly to nurses.
The Nursing Brain Versus the Medical Brain
When I trained and worked as a ward nurse, the message surrounding mistakes often felt remarkably simple:
Do not make them.
Which, superficially, seems entirely reasonable.
Wrong medication? – Potential harm.
Incorrect dose? – Potential harm.
Missed deterioration? – Potential harm.
Wrong patient? – Definitely potential harm.
Healthcare is not a particularly forgiving environment in which to develop an experimental attitude towards accuracy.
As a ward nurse, I therefore developed what I suspect many nurses develop: an almost visceral fear of getting something wrong.
Check – Double-check – Check again.
Then briefly wonder whether you checked it correctly and check once more for recreational purposes.
There is enormous value in that mindset.
But after working for several years in an advanced clinical role—assessing patients, prescribing, interpreting investigations and increasingly operating in the grey area where decisions rather than tasks dominate the day—I have come to understand something slightly differently.
Human error cannot be completely engineered out of healthcare simply by instructing healthcare professionals not to make mistakes.
That is not an excuse for poor practice.
It is human-factors science.
The Difference Between Accepting Error and Accepting Harm
James Reason’s landmark analysis of human error distinguished between the person approach and the systems approach (Reason, 2000).
The person approach asks:
Who made the mistake?
The systems approach asks:
How did the circumstances allow this mistake to reach the patient?
These are not mutually exclusive questions.
Accountability remains important.
But Reason’s central argument was that errors frequently arise within systems containing multiple latent vulnerabilities—workload, communication problems, environmental pressures, poorly designed processes, interruptions, inadequate defences and organisational conditions—which can align and allow an error to progress towards harm (Reason, 2000).
This distinction remains deeply embedded within modern patient-safety science.
The current NHS Patient Safety Incident Response Framework explicitly promotes system-based approaches to understanding patient-safety incidents rather than simplistic attempts to identify a single cause or individual culprit (NHS England, 2025).
That is an important distinction.
Saying:
“Humans will make mistakes.”
is not the same as saying:
“Mistakes don’t matter.”
Quite the opposite.
If human fallibility is predictable, systems should be designed around it.
Nursing Has Moved On Too
And, importantly, modern nursing regulation does not actually say:
Never make a mistake.
The NMC Code requires nurses to preserve safety, practise effectively, be accountable for their decisions and raise concerns where necessary. The professional duty of candour goes further: healthcare professionals must be open and honest when things go wrong and should report adverse incidents and near misses that may have resulted in harm (NMC, 2024; NMC, 2025a).
That produces a considerably more sophisticated professional expectation:
Prevent avoidable mistakes wherever reasonably possible.
But if something does go wrong:
Recognise it – Protect the patient – Escalate it – Own your contribution – Be honest – Learn from it.
And change something if something needs changing.
That is not being soft on error. It is being serious about safety.
Just Culture Does Not Mean “Nobody’s Fault”
This is where the term just culture occasionally becomes misunderstood.
A just culture does not mean nobody is ever accountable.
Nor does it mean that every action can be explained away by blaming “the system”.
NHS England explicitly describes just culture as balancing fairness, transparency and learning while still retaining responsibility and accountability. Its patient-safety guidance recognises that mistakes generally emerge from multiple interacting factors and encourages organisations to examine systems and processes alongside individual actions (NHS England, 2026).
There remains an obvious distinction between:
A reasonable clinician making a reasonable decision that subsequently proves wrong.
An inadvertent human error.
A knowledge or competency gap requiring education.
A system that makes error unnecessarily easy.
And deliberate, reckless or persistently unsafe behaviour.
Lumping all of these together under the heading “mistake” is educationally useless.
The purpose of a learning culture is not to remove accountability.
It is to make accountability intelligent.
Why Putting Your Hand Up Matters
Because the alternative is worse.
If clinicians believe admitting an error will automatically result in punishment or humiliation, the rational human response is predictable.
People become quieter – Near misses disappear – Questions stop being asked – Problems become visible only when they have already produced harm.
Research into error reporting among nurses repeatedly identifies organisational culture, fear of consequences, interpersonal relationships and perceptions of blame as important influences on whether healthcare professionals report errors and near misses (Woo and Avery, 2021; Braiki et al., 2024).
This matters because a hidden near miss teaches an organisation precisely nothing.
It merely sits quietly in the corner waiting for another opportunity.
Psychological Safety Is Not About Being Nice
This leads neatly into psychological safety.
Edmondson’s seminal work defined psychological safety as a shared belief that a team is safe for interpersonal risk-taking and demonstrated an association between psychological safety and learning behaviour (Edmondson, 1999).
Within healthcare, that concept has obvious relevance.
Asking:
“I don’t understand this.” – is an interpersonal risk.
Saying:
“I think I may have made a mistake.” – is an interpersonal risk.
Telling somebody senior:
“I’m worried about this patient.” – is an interpersonal risk.
Saying:
“Could you check this because I’m not confident?” – is an interpersonal risk.
A psychologically safe team does not remove standards.
It creates an environment where people can expose uncertainty before uncertainty becomes harm.
NHS England now explicitly includes supportive, psychologically safe teamwork and the ability to speak up among the foundations of a positive safety culture (NHS England, 2026).
In less PhD-like terminology:
If asking a question makes you look stupid, eventually people stop asking questions.
If admitting a mistake gets you publicly crucified, people become remarkably good at not noticing mistakes.
Neither improves patient safety.
Three Days In
Which brings us neatly back to the new doctors.
During those first few days, questions came.
Lots of questions – Some straightforward – Some Upper GI-specific – Some involving prescriptions – Some involving drains – Some involving investigations.
Some beginning with:
“Can I just check…?”
Yes.
Please do.
I genuinely have very little problem with somebody asking me a question.
Particularly in someone’s first week.
I would much rather answer a question at 10am than discover at 5pm why somebody decided not to ask it.
For many ward-based practical problems, medical school cannot possibly prepare somebody for every local process they will encounter.
Theoretical knowledge is one thing.
Knowing how an individual surgical service actually operates is another.
This is precisely why workplace learning matters. Dornan et al. (2007) argue that authentic participation in clinical work, supported appropriately by practitioners, enables learners to develop professional capability through experience rather than merely through the acquisition of abstract knowledge.
Within our Upper GI team, people are generally approachable.
Consultants.
Registrars.
Postgraduate doctors.
Nursing staff.
Practitioners.
And everybody else in the strange multidisciplinary organism that keeps the service moving.
That does not mean new doctors should have everything done for them.
Quite the opposite.
You guide – You explain – You let them do it – You check – You give feedback.
Then you gradually step away.
Otherwise,e you have not trained somebody.
You have merely acquired an assistant.
The Slight Problem Was That I Was Dying
Educationally, therefore, the week was rather satisfying.
Physically, it was hideous.
I worked five days.
Five. Consecutive. Days.
Regular readers will appreciate that my usual working pattern means this is fortunately not an event I have to endure too frequently.
Most mornings I arrived around 7am.
Most evenings I left somewhere around 7–8pm.
Meanwhile Britain appeared to have become confused about its geographical location.
The UK had been experiencing another prolonged period of very hot and dry summer weather, adding environmental discomfort to an already rather energetic working week.
Hospitals, architecturally speaking, remain beautifully designed for climatic conditions last experienced during the Crimean War.
There are windows which open approximately four centimetres.
There are corridors capable of retaining heat from the previous Tuesday.
There are clinical rooms where the temperature appears to have its own NEWS2 score.
And somewhere, inevitably, there is a fan which was apparently purchased during the summer of 2003 and produces a gentle breeze detectable only by laboratory equipment.
By late afternoon, my cerebral function was probably being maintained principally by water, caffeine and professional obligation.
Friday: The Final Boss
And then came Friday afternoon.
Friday afternoon in surgery is not really an afternoon.
It is a handover deadline with weather.
Before disappearing into the weekend, everything needs tightening down:
Outstanding jobs completed. Investigations checked. Weekend plans documented. Discharges anticipated. Escalation plans clear. Elective patients sorted. Bariatric patients prescribed their appropriate postoperative medication. Patients requiring closer monitoring identified.
Anyone particularly unwell reviewed and given a sensible plan for what happens if their condition changes.
This is not simply administrative neatness.
Transitions of care, handovers and discontinuities between teams are recognised patient-safety vulnerabilities because information, responsibility and situational awareness have to move between professionals rather than remaining with the clinician who originally assessed the patient. Modern patient-safety thinking therefore treats effective communication and teamwork as components of the safety system rather than optional interpersonal niceties (NHS England, 2022; NHS England, 2026).
Which is why:
“Weekend team to monitor.” – is not really a plan.
Monitor what? For what? How often? And what exactly would you like the person monitoring it to do when it changes?
Details, apparently, remain important.
And Then There Is the Blood Round
Before any peaceful departure into the weekend, however, comes one final opponent.
The weekend blood round.
Oh joy.
Few activities better demonstrate the glamour of advanced clinical practice than spending part of Friday prescribing approximately nine thousand Full Blood Counts, U&Es, CRPs and assorted other biochemical investigations for Saturday and Sunday.
Click.
Click.
Click.
“Tomorrow.”
Click.
“Sunday.”
Click.
“Why has that disappeared?”
Click.
“Why are there three requests now?”
Delete.
Re-prescribe.
Contemplate agricultural employment.
Continue.
It is bloody tedious.
Pun entirely intended.
But it matters.
And by late Friday afternoon, everything was done.
The jobs had been completed.
The weekend plan was organised.
The elective patients were prepared.
The bariatric prescriptions were sorted.
Those patients needing particularly close attention had appropriate escalation plans.
Our particularly unwell patients were as safe and appropriately planned for as we could make them before the weekend team inherited them.
And nobody had been abandoned with a clinical entry consisting solely of:
“Monitor.”
Result.
Three Days Earlier They Were New
What struck me most, however, was the difference in the new postgraduate doctors after only a few days.
On Wednesday there were understandably lots of questions.
By Friday there were fewer.
Not because they had magically learned all of Upper GI surgery in 72 hours.
They hadn’t.
I haven’t, and I have been here considerably longer.
They had instead learned where things were.
Who to ask.
What the priorities were.
Which things could wait.
Which things absolutely could not.
How the team communicated.
How ward work flowed.
And, perhaps most importantly, they had started becoming confident enough to make decisions while recognising when those decisions required senior input.
That is workplace learning happening almost in real time.
It is also why confidence must be distinguished from competence.
The aim is not to produce clinicians who feel sufficiently confident to act independently in every circumstance.
The aim is to develop clinicians whose degree of autonomy expands appropriately alongside their competence.
That process depends on experience, supervision, feedback and gradually increasing participation in authentic clinical work (Dornan et al., 2007; van de Ridder et al., 2008).
Or, put more simply:
Wednesday: “Can I ask you something?”
Friday: “I’ve done this because of X, Y and Z. Are you happy with that?”
That is progress.
The Annual Reset
By the time I finally left on Friday evening, I was exhausted.
Five long days.
An August changeover.
New doctors.
A handbook.
Ward work.
Clinic work.
Prescriptions.
Imaging.
Side missions.
Bariatric medication.
Weekend planning.
Blood rounds.
And approximately the same ambient temperature as the inside of a recently switched-off laparoscopic stack.
But strangely, it had also been satisfying.
Three days earlier, a new group of doctors had arrived who understandably did not yet know our systems.
By Friday they already looked more comfortable.
They were asking better questions.
They knew more of the patients.
They understood more of the workflow.
And the Upper GI machine had continued running.
That is probably what good clinical education looks like most of the time.
Not lectures.
Not PowerPoint.
Not somebody standing at the front discussing Kolb’s Learning Cycle while half the room quietly completes mandatory training.
It happens during work.
A question here. A correction there.
“Have you thought about…?” “Check that result.” “Speak to the registrar.” “Before you prescribe that, have a look at….”
“Before you prescribe that, have a look at….”
Small interventions repeated hundreds of times.
Clinical learning becomes embedded within clinical work itself.
That is essentially the experience-based learning described in the medical-education literature: participation, observation, responsibility, feedback and increasing independence developing together within the workplace rather than education existing as something separate from service delivery (Dornan et al., 2007).
And occasionally somebody will make a mistake.
As will nurses. As will Nurse Practitioners. As will registrars. As will consultants. As will pharmacists. As will radiologists.
As will everybody else who happens to be human while working inside an extraordinarily complex healthcare system.
The professional obligation is not to shrug our shoulders and declare human fallibility inevitable.
Nor is it to construct a culture in which admitting uncertainty becomes professionally terrifying.
It is to design systems that reduce avoidable error, create barriers preventing errors reaching patients, recognise problems early, encourage appropriate escalation, remain candid when something goes wrong and extract meaningful learning from incidents and near misses (Reason, 2000; NMC, 2024; NHS England, 2025).
That distinction is important.
Error may be human. Learning from it is professional.
The dangerous clinician is therefore rarely the person who occasionally says:
“I’m not sure.”
Those may be three of the safest words in healthcare.
The more concerning clinician is the one who has stopped asking questions because they believe they already possess all the answers.
And so another August changeover had begun.
The outgoing doctors moved on.
The new doctors moved in.
The patients remained.
The Upper GI team adjusted.
The handbook was finished.
The weekend bloods were prescribed.
And somewhere in Taunton, my son was probably considerably less exhausted after playing competitive tennis than I was after surviving five consecutive days in Upper GI.
Although, admittedly, he got a result at the end of his day.
I got Monday.
Reference List
Braiki, R. et al. (2024) ‘Factors influencing the reporting of medication errors and near misses among nurses: a systematic review’, International Nursing Review. Available through PubMed Central.
Dornan, T., Boshuizen, H., King, N. and Scherpbier, A. (2007) ‘Experience-based learning: a model linking the processes and outcomes of medical students’ workplace learning’, Medical Education, 41(1), pp. 84–91. doi: 10.1111/j.1365-2929.2006.02652.x.
Edmondson, A.C. (1999) ‘Psychological safety and learning behavior in work teams’, Administrative Science Quarterly, 44(2), pp. 350–383. doi: 10.2307/2666999.
Hughes, M.J. et al. (2023) ‘The junior doctor changeover effect: does it exist in general surgery?’, Annals of the Royal College of Surgeons of England.
NHS England (2022) Safety culture: learning from best practice. London: NHS England.
NHS England (2025) Patient Safety Incident Response Framework. London: NHS England.
NHS England (2026) Improving patient safety culture: a practical guide. London: NHS England.
Nursing and Midwifery Council (2024) The professional duty of candour. London: NMC.
Nursing and Midwifery Council (2025a) The Code: Professional standards of practice and behaviour for nurses, midwives and nursing associates. London: NMC.
Nursing and Midwifery Council (2025b) Social media guidance. London: NMC.
Reason, J. (2000) ‘Human error: models and management’, BMJ, 320(7237), pp. 768–770. doi: 10.1136/bmj.320.7237.768.
Royal College of Surgeons of England (2026) Surgery career paths. London: Royal College of Surgeons of England.
Van de Ridder, J.M.M., Stokking, K.M., McGaghie, W.C. and ten Cate, O.T.J. (2008) ‘What is feedback in clinical education?’, Medical Education, 42(2), pp. 189–197. doi: 10.1111/j.1365-2923.2007.02973.x.
Vaughan, L., McAlister, G., Bell, D., Hill, D., Knights, L. and Camm, A.J. (2011) ‘August is always a nightmare: results of the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh and Society for Acute Medicine August transition survey’, Clinical Medicine, 11(4), pp. 322–326.
Woo, M.W.J. and Avery, M.J. (2021) ‘Nurses’ experiences in voluntary error reporting: an integrative literature review’, International Journal of Nursing Sciences, 8(4), pp. 453–469.
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