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and I want you to have them. Okay? That's really brilliant, Everybody, I know that we we spend a lot of time designing conference all year, and we really wanted this year to to consider, you know, what is it that we can say to the system? We really come up with these three things Quite recognition, because there's amazing things going on, an amazing innovations to lift our eyes and to really take our time to do that and to increase our ambitions. And I think over today just to reinforce this Oh, yes, small, small people problem, um, to really reinforce, um that we can we can have ambition. And if anybody works with Matthew, you should you You might know that no matter when you think you've done everything and think you should do a little bit more, he gives you another. We shove to think What else could you have done? So we really hope that we've set the ambition because, you know, the whole sense of conference has been that we can do more with what we've got, and that's come again and again throughout the time and then really mobilizing around that to go further, faster, so those have been are themes, and I think we've really hit those. But really, in the business of health care, what it's all about is about people, and usually at the end of conference, we really try and just bring that back to Why do we do care? Why do we do our work? And so this year I'm really, really delighted that we've asked Michael Longley to come and say at home for us because we wanted to thank the staff. And sometimes poetry cuts through all of the things that we could say. So I'm going to invite Michael to the to the stage. I'm sure most people will know Michael, but he's won the Wheat Bread Prize, the T S. Eliot Prize, Queens Gold Medal and the Pen Enterprise. And I just loved what one of the judges said. For decades now, his effortlessly lyric and fluent poetry has been holy, suffused with the qualities of humanity, humility and compassion, never shying away from the moral complexity of seeing both sides of the argument. And it's sort of that that touches our hearts about why why do we do your job? So I asked Michael to come and read a few poems, and he's going to say a wee bit about the poems that he has, uh, written for us, Actually. Not even raining out for us. Michael. Yeah, right. Here we go. Here you go. You could You could use a problem. What's that? All right, Right. Am I audible? Good. Right. In a few minutes, I should read you a couple of poems. But before that, I want to say a few words in praise of the so called nannies state. United States. It was originally intended as a pejorative term. But if it weren't for the Nanny State, I probably would not be standing here today. And I certainly would not be who I am now. The nanny state provided me and my twin brother with good primary secondary and in my case, tertiary education. It nursed us through serious childhood witnesses and saved my life. When I was struck down by meningitis, the United State cared for my parents when they were laid low by terminal illness. My three Children have been brilliantly educated and prepared for the world. One daughter, Sarah, an artist, another daughter, Rebecca, a businesswoman and our son Daniel, a professor of cancer biology at Queens University. So I feel confident that are seven grandchildren will be equally well schooled and cared for. Only this week my wife and I received our annual flu jabs and our fifth coverted booster injections, for which we are profoundly grateful. And I have yet to mention the steady care my diabetes receives three or four times a year. I know it is under extreme pressure right now, but culturally, medically, politically, The Nanny State remains one of humanity's most tiring and radiant achievements, and I read for you to medical poems. One a childhood memory of the family doctor, the other about a recent cataract operation. Both are celebrations of doctors I think of as artists. I think of them as artists. I feel honored that Heather More had invited me to read at your important conference, and in fact, her invitation inspired the second poem I'm going to read. So you're amused. Hello, cataract. My eyeballs frozen. I lie at the bottom of a well leaves decorate the ice. Leaning on my eyelid. Simon rank him, breaks the surface and reaches into my mind. He brings implements with him curious geometry blades that keep fading away. He restores the world's colors. He has discovered them in my own dark kaleidoscope, and the second poem it's called Sam Armstrong. I wonder if there's anyone in the audience remembers him. I hope so. Sam Armstrong. He called my mother daughter Dear Sam Armstrong family doctor, his voice booming in the whole like a benediction, his tread heavy on the stairs and then the massive tweedy presence smelling so of cleanliness. Gentian, violet, normal, almost blind. His spectacles. One black lens and bottle glass, his knowledgeable fingers diagnosing what was wrong with adenoids and tonsils. His huge head close to my head, eavesdropping on heart and lungs, his huge head close to my head, eavesdropping on heart and lungs, lighting up my ear hole. And once when the curtain *** was agony and cologne steamed off my brow, he watched through the darkness deaths approach and claiming I'm better than a specialist, injected me and saved my life. When an artery during childbirth ruptured with one stubby thumb, he pressed into our neighbors groin. There's no time for an ambulance and whispering, breathing deeply with his other confident hand delivered nan Berkeley's son. Leave the baby at her breast. Sam. Sam Armstrong, Family doctor. Long lived. The Nanny state can do business. Michael, Thank you so much. That was completely just perfect for the for the end of our day. We've got some friends sessions now, of course, because I packed too much in. And the drinks reception is 6 45 for dinner at half past seven. So we see all them and see you all tomorrow. But, Michael, thank you very much. It was perfect.