Camel Toes

M'sister recently emailed me.She had caught a West Indian production of "Carmen" on SBS and noted how exuberant it had been - size 20 sopranos ,she said, still looking sexy in tight pants with camel toes. 

What, I e-mailed back, was a camel-toe - apart from the hoof of a dromedary.(I actually thought- some kind of footwear)

Google it, she replied.

So I did. 

I was taken to a porn site from which I will doubtless be offered penis enlargements and instant erections for the next 20 years or so.

Har har said M'sister, You should have had a filter on your internet.

Useless to point out that my knowledge of the computer falls so short of this that ,to me, a filter is either a coffee strainer or an anaesthetic device.

DOM in gloom over her results- ABBBC- in any other culture perfectly acceptable but in her high achieving circles less than average (I would point out that these are aggregates and by definition she is in the highest 50% of the state)

I was slightly peeved by the revelation that her long nights of study (or so I thought) were mostly spent writing a fantasy novel. All I can say is that if she finally gets published she should profusely thank her mother for support (as if).

Nocturnals

DaughterOfMine has been back from Schoolies for two weeks and is in the inevitable limbo of awaiting her year 12 results.

She has been as sick as a dog for those two weeks and is currently on her third course of antibiotics.

Any suggestion by me that fresh food, exercise and a decent night's sleep (as opposed to eating cheese toasties all night whilst surfing the internet and concocting strange cocktails with the leftovers from the drinks cabinet) might boost her immune system are met with scorn. After all what would I know?

Obviously the problem is that the stupid doctors haven't given her strong enough medicine...and of course she's the first patient to ever say that to me. 

I got up the other morning to find that she had been making gingerbread men overnight.I looked at them and then looked more closely. Each tiny face had a carefully pipetted expression of fear or anxiety - like a little row of Munsche's "Scream"s (only edible).

I raised an eyebrow at DOM. She shrugged. "Well, after all" she said " They do know they're being executed in the morning".

Fish tales

Number one son is living in Sydney's Western suburbs (aka Bogan-ville) . He is rebelling against his parents by becoming a contented lower middle class git.

 Pathognomonic of the syndrome apparently (apart from the more obvious plasma screen TV, X-Box,BBQ and two car (man-like sedan for him, chicky-babe bubble car for her ) garage ) is an interest in fish.In tanks. With complex eco-systems (many involving miniature plastic palaces and ruined temples). 

There are even large chain stores, some dealing only with the complicated apparatus of the fish-lover , others branching into other aspects of what I can only consider to be an unhealthy interest in lower forms of life. If you can't eat it wear it or ride it what could possibly make you spend time with it?

Of course No 1 has a history of this sort of thing . Who could possibly forget the Great Guppy Massacre of 2005? Or the Siamese Fighting Fish fiasco of 2004 which preceded it ?Only his aunt's carelessness with a vacuum cleaner (goodbye 150l tank and a carpet) and a refocussing of his year 12 interests (towards parties and girls) saved us from becoming Fish Paradise.

And so No 1 found himself in the pet equivalent of k-mart looking for a shrimp to clean his windows.

Not for nothing did he do aquaculture in year 11 -when the girl brought out the little fella he looked at it suspiciously.

"That's a yabby" he said.

No, she asserted, it was a shrimp.

He pointed out that he was pretty sure that shrimps were not black with menacing claws and furthermore- if he was correct -that the fate of his existing fish would be decapitation the moment they went to sleep in the presence of their new buddy.

The sales assistant insisted tearfully that it was a shrimp. The manager arrived and looked at the counter. "What's with the yabby?" he asked.

No 1 looked more closely at the girl's badge. Under her name "Mandy" it stated "Bird Dept".

"You don't know anything about fish do you? " he asked.

"Well, " she said defensively "All the other girls are in the toilet."

(He didn't ask).

Exams

Both our fellows failed their exams this week. There was doom and gloom and anger  in the Unit (as you might expect), although they both came to terms with it pretty quickly.Both are from overseas. I think  if they had been from Oz that the anger and disbelief may have lingered a bit longer. 

Australians don't really know how to fail any more (or at least not cheerfully and often as we seemed to).

 Entry to medical school is now based on psychological testing and an interview rather than scores. At medical school nearly everything is a non graded pass.In specialist training assessments are a mishmash of politically correct tickboxing ; robust comments are discouraged; sensitive interviews for the "trainee in difficulties" (usually an overt psychopath) are the recommended course of action (and mostly geared toward reducing the College's liability).

Failure in the primary exam is often the first obstacle that these  people have ever encountered although since most regard the subject matter as immaterial it doesn't have the same devastating impact as failure in the Finals. Failure in a superspeciality exam even more so.

There's another PC subject for med school "How to be a Failure'- maybe you could only pass if you have failed something thus ensuring that nobody has a perfect academic transcript.Fairness rules.

A Dog's Life

The Urban Terrorist had his tenth birthday recently.For some years my sister in law (no,I don't think she likes me very much actually) had been threatening, sorry, offering to give him a dog.She finally followed through and while he was away in the hinterland having a birthday camping trip with his father the sister in law delivered the animal.

She breeds- chihuahas.

Enough said (or misspelt).

I left it up to the UT to name the creature but in the four days we were alone together it learnt to respond to my  form of address. Unfortunately you can't use the word Motherf..... in public.

Daughter of mine and I have agreed that ,given its size (smaller than a handbag) relative to the amount of faeces it produces (bigger than a suitcase)  its' primary organ must be its' large intestine.DOM when she returned from Schoolies danced the I-told-you-so Dance (which is like the snoopy dance only more malignant).

It thinks that I am its mother. Well, why not. I feed it ,bathe it ,clean up after it and yell at it a lot.All I have to do now is pay its private school fees.

A further sign of the passage of the years -the urban terrorist had his first sex education lesson today. (Sorry, now called Life Matters. I have resisted the urge to write in and ask if this is a title or a declaration of intent.)The class were given templates of the male and female body (anatomically correct as they say) and asked to label them.After 10 minutes it was mentioned that this would go in their Portfolio of Work which occasioned much white-out usage.

I surprised a human (ie prejudiced ) comment from his (usually politically correct)principal the other day.I had gone to her office to pass on that another mother (whom I was careful NOT to describe as a fat blonde with an attitude- a wordpicture painted by T UT-) had baled up a group of boys in the playground and abused them collectively for excluding her son.I felt honour bound to say in mitigation that this child DID tend to be bullied and excluded and she nodded.Then she paused "of course...J IS a very irritating child." So is UT, I pointed out."Ye-es" she conceded "but he is clever and funny with it". I have always found his ability to amuse a saving grace but I would have thought it would wear thin with teachers.

Pitfalls in Counselling

Daughter of Mine has yet to tell me what she intends to do with her life. I wouldn't mind so much if I didn't have a sinking feeling that I will be funding it.

DOM is (it goes without saying ) beautiful bright and charming. She and all her peers have had the benefit of the new wide ranging State curriculum designed to turn them into thoughtful active citizens and have been enthusiastic participants in the many and varied extracurricular activities on offer- all of which serve to build us a better balanced dole queue.

It's not called a dole queue anymore . Even in my parent's day it was the unemployment office and by my time it had advanced to be the Commonwealth Employment Bureau (although with fewer jobs on offer.

As the Marriage Guidance became Relationships Australia (some sense there) and Family Planning became (bizarrely) Shine so did the Employment weasel- word it's way to become Centre-link (?huh).

In Year 11 school classes go to Centre-link ostensibly to seek career advice but probably so most of them will know where it is on a map. Each teenager has a short interview with a case-worker and they are then shown (I got all of this from DOM so no claims to accuracy here) a room with files full of job descriptions and encouraged to browse.

Just how much information you can glean with the inevitable Davo and Jonno running around declaring "I wanna be a topless waitress" and "Where's the file on dealing dope?" I don't know.

DOM's interviewer asked her what she was interested in. She said painting, writing and drama.He said " I actually meant that you could earn a living from."

I knew I should have gotten her that T-Shirt when we went to LA. It said "Yes , I do have a Performing Arts degree and would you like fries with that?"

The school was not much better in year 12. DOM went to see the Careers Guidance Officer who was actually one of the Maths teachers in disguise ( I think it was the one who had offered to join in the book-burning when her (lowest- rated) class finally finished the compulsory Maths curriculum in Year 11).

He sighed heavily as she outlined her interests (see above), perked up briefly when she mentioned an interest in psychology and collapsed back down again when she expressed a aversion to rats and statistics (and science in general.)

"You really mean a counsellor" he said dispiritedly "Why on earth would anyone want to do that?"

"You're a counsellor" she pointed out.

He thought for a moment .

"Oh God.......You're right."

She hadn't had that much encouragement since she told her favourite teacher (Drama naturally) in Year 9 that she might like to teach. "Christ, why would you want to do that?" was the reply. "Change your mind now before it's too late".

Futurekind

Daughter-of-Mine has her last day of school on Friday.It will (apparently) be a much more muted affair than when her brother left only a few years ago.

"Muckup Day" - that frankly odd mixture of ceremony and spite which first appeared in schools about 25 years ago and has been flourishing ever since- is now politically incorrect. Not just the obvious and understandably frowned -upon  components- damage to school property with eggs and flour, publishing the Year 12 "Hit List" of the most despised staff and students - but the relatively innocuous water pistols (threatening behaviour) and the exchange of boys' and girls' uniforms (apparently cross-dressing can offend an unspecified and one can only assume hitherto silent minority).

At least I won't get her uniform back ripped at every seam from some 6 foot tall hairy male wearing it for the day.Or covered in obscene graffiti.

The PC revolution continued with the official briefings for Schoolies.

 With Number One Son's class it was a  paramedic and a council officer and some sensible damage limitation advice -how to put your mate in the coma position , which chemists dispense the morning after pill, where to go to rest,to rehydrate or just to feel safe if it was all too much. (I know these tents will still be there down at Victor because my church helps run one).

This year it was a policeman who looked and acted as if he hated all teenagers (OK certain sympathy there) and a knit- your- own -yoghurt -and have -it-with-brown-rice Welfare worker.

The entire message was don't get drunk and don't have sex. Yes,well- but apparently if they admit the possibility let alone give any advice about it they could be seen to be condoning it- even encouraging it- and of course that makes them (gasp) potentially LIABLE  (the real boogie-man).

So abstinence and orange juice all round, chaps and chapesses.(or lads and ladettes).

Time to trawl

I've had a pleasant holiday. M'sister invited the urban terrorist to her NSW home for a week and offered to take him down to the Blue Mountains to see the caves.

I thought it best to accompany him interstate in case there were - shall we say- any unpleasant incidents.

M'sister survived with both her coronaries and her sense of dignity intact although both were tried- the former by the sight of a nine year old dancing along the edge of a 200 metre cliff and the latter by watching same (at the end of a 2 hour guided tour) emptying his bladder on a(world heritage listed) cave wall to the bemusement of half a dozen Japanese tourists.

I wasn't there of course. I judged my duty to be done by being in the general vicinity (ie in the same State).Being a consultant on call has taught me a few things.

I was at M'sisters house surrounded by an inexhaustable supply of good wine and mediocre murder mysteries.

Mediocre mysteries are of course best . Literature is for Booker Prize nominees.A murder mystery must have a pleasant setting, not too much violence of course ,a detective or protagonist with whom I am in sympathy and a certain amount of humour. If there is a young couple in love they must never -under any circumstances - be the murderers. Plot is optional and the ability to guess the murderer with a degree of accuracy is a plus. Although certain cheats are inexcusable - ie use of dreams or psychic powers to explain plotholes, the insertion of new information in the denouement (Agatha was renowned for this ) and ABSOLUTELY the explanation that the hitherto blameless and saintly character was the murderer because of a sudden attack of madness.

Thank goodness for M'sister's collection. I had an unpleasant hour or so trying to find something to read at Angus and Robertson's before we flew out.Why are the "New Release " shelves full of books the covers of which feature the haunted sepia tinted faces of waifs and strays?The covers are indistinguishable but they appear to be divided into tales of despair and destruction (third person, fiction and true crime ) and tales of uplifting I-rose-above-it-alls (autobiography and campaign awareness).There is a triple decker guilt-trip here .Feel guilty if you buy it (vicarious interest in another's sufferings ) and guilty if you don't (passing by a fellow-man's catharsis). The third deck is for people like me who automatically make fun of any genre.

I need a book to be upbeat without being uplifting (or inspiring) and light-hearted without being banal.

Perhaps I should get daughter of mine to expand her blogs (jealously guarded).Even inadvertently she can cheer me.She tells me she had a history essay returned with a query as to which military campaign she was referring to. "Oh well" she shrugged "I knew it was a cleaning product". That would be Operation Ajax dear, not Windex.

Angst Magic

I've just had a happy few hours web surfing while the Urban Terrorist was entertained with an Adam Sandler movie (I was excused due to allergy- also Rob Schneider and Ben Stiller).

I said to DOM who had wandered in "Do you know why I like reading teacher's and policemen's blogs?"

"Sure" she said "It's because you like to know that there are people out there more bitter and twisted and cynical than yourself."

"No" I said,hurt. "I just like to know that there are people out there who work in the government sector and  are treated worse than me and are paid less ."

"Oh"she said"That's OK then".

Maybe I just like angst. In others,in myself.

I was running a course last week. The same course I've been running for some years; I just get the same lecturers ,the same caterers the same set up each year and you would think the fact that it runs pretty smoothly would make me relaxed about it all. Instead I ran around like a headless chook worrying about everything and snapping generally. Then it struck me ( as things tend to do regularly you might have noticed).

I believe in angst magic. This is like sympathetic magic only stronger (and slightly dottier).My theory (now that I realise it ) is that general angst and anxiety generate a strong electrical/magnetic /magical field that ...stops the...gremlins...getting in.Sort of. So if you run around screaming and shouting and generally carrying on everything will be O.K. Yes?

Bank Manager

Number One Son rang the other day .He is a sailor on Her Majesty's Australian Ship Pick -the-State-Capital-of -Your - Choice .He's 19 years old and -for what basically amounts to unskilled labour- is pulling 50k a year when he's at sea.Which he is at the moment, steaming away to a foreign duty free tourist destination all in the name of international relations.

He was distraught. "Everyone buys their girlfriends jewellery at this place Mum," he wailed "I can't afford it!"

 Why not? (see above).

It turns out that what he has in his pockets is pocket money. Sans rent, sans the mortgage on the investment house back home and sans each of their contribution to a must-give-two-weeks-notice-of-withdrawal high interest bank account.

Why is this woman a sailor in the Navy? She should be a bank manager. Or a psychologist - she got him sussed a lot quicker than I did.

Servile Genes

On my fiftieth birthday I was treated  to a murder mystery weekend at M.... Hall. Thirteen of my extended family turned up in costume and in character to a nineteenth century stately home where we progressed from 4 o'clock scones and jam through to a silver service dinner (with murder) and eventually to a country house breakfast the next day.My brother played the overweight middleaged roue' with a taste for fine wine and  daughter-of-mine played the buxom tart with the heart of gold. Neither of them had to do much acting.

Mine host , who played variously the curator, the butler and the policeman (there was obviously a limited budget) narrated the story of the original inhabitants. In the nineteenth century, he told us, no fewer than 15 servants and laborers spent all their  time looking after the needs of one small family and that family themselves never did a stroke of work." Fancy that" we marvelled as we were obviously meant to.

Hang on a minute though I thought. I pictured in my mind the typical "heartsink"family. Husband on the disability pension (for back pain); wife on a carer's pension; two kids on the dole; three more kids at various stages of schooling - one on with a social services case worker , one with respite out of hours care .   Housing trust home , domiciliary care housework occasionally, mental health workers, GP, Physiotherapist and several sets of specialist medical  services(chronic pain , respiratory (for the smoking related diseases) cardiology (ditto) and perhaps endocrine (for the diabetes  and morbid obesity)) involved. None of the family have done a stroke of work for years .We all basically exist to service them.

Then I had another thought. A hundred years ago it was MY ancestors getting up at six in the morning to light the fires so the old master could get up comfortably at nine. Now it is me getting up at six in the morning to travel to work to be ready to see Husband Above (often to get a DNA (*did not attend).(They will sometimes ring later in the day to explain that it was just too hard to get in at that hour and could they have another appointment only later in the day).

It is obvious . I have servile genes.In the great genetic programming my family got parlourmaid. Nothing has changed but the job title. And the pay thank God.

Evangelista

Sunday today and I am in the mood to form a new church.I'm not suggesting a new God or even a new Messiah - I don't even want a new Holy Book as long as I am not expected to believe the literal truth of every word of the current selection .

Not that I mind if others do. I don't even mind them exhorting me to believe as they do . That is the nature of the religious- if they feel they have got it right then they must tell every one.

It is a more subtle thing that I protest-it is the assumption that because I am sitting next to them that I must think exactly as they do about every facet of life. This presumption (in every meaning of the word ) is present at both ends of the spectrum. If you attend a liberal congregation then it is taken as read that you approve of (and demand the approval of others for)  practicing homosexuals as priests ; if you attend an evangelical service then your belief in seven days of creation 30,000 or so years ago is taken as read.

The church I want to found is not just a church which allows variance of opinion- I'm sure that is catered for somewhere.I want a church that actively allows you to be hazy about contentious issues that you don't really want to think about. The sign outside would read "Welcome to Saint ...... - a church proudly within the wishy-washy tradition."

You could attend in the happy knowledge that nobody would be signing any schismatic declarations or agitating for any reforms on your behalf.

I know that there are others like me out there. I only have to think of the playwright Allen Bennet, who was asked when in Hollywood to attend a meeting of the American AA . As the introductions went round the circle people stood up and began "Hello I'm X and I'm an alcoholic/drug abuser etc ",giving a precis of their depths of despair and often ending in tears. When they got to Bennett he stood up and said simply "Hello, I'm Allen, I'm British and we don't do this sort of thing" and sat down again.

Mary-Sue

I was introduced to this concept by one of our registrars . All I can say is--if you haven't come across it before do a google and you will spend many happy hours in cyberspace . A Mary Sue is a character in a story (usually sci - fi or fantasy ) who is completely over the top.. ..they are the young ensign who saves the fleet despite being 15 years old, the young witch with the deeply sexy familiar who defies the dark mage the warrior maiden who captures the heart of the warlord after besting him in battle etc They are thought to be the personification of the author's wish fufillments..(therefore usually attractive,athletic etc)

I was astounded and somewhat moved by the fact that our small anaesthetic department housed so many frustrated authors.The registrar who called my attention to Mary Sue was (like me) a cozy mystery writer who will never see the light of day but I was surprised to find others. I  surveyed our junior registrar , coyly admitting to being a closet fantasy writer. She is a 25 year old 6 foot tall red-headed, blue eyed athlete.I looked at her and asked sourly "so what's your Mary Sue.. a dark haired midget with a squint.?"

(In case you are wondering, my Doctor Tim Mysteries featuring an avuncular anaesthetist will probably never see the light of day)

disrepute

I see that a review of medical bloggers has determined that we can be done for a)possibly allowing patients to be identified and b)possibly allowing our speciality/hospital/department to be recognised therefore potentially "bringing the profession into disrepute". ?OK maybe I understand point number one -nobody likes to know that their doctor thinks that they are a personality disordered no-hoper with a drug seeking habit and a risible line in alibis but ???bringing the profession into disrepute - apparently just by being identifiable at that.

It doesn't augur well for Aussie docs - I personally spend half my time in chronic pain in one of only two tertiary centres in my state.I can name by sight and body odour almost every public hospital pain specialist in the country. Does that mean that I can never bitch, never share angst or anecdotes in cyberspace?---Any budding ethicists please reply.

My sibling is an emergency medicine specialist; you would think that with the thousands of visits a year in every emergency department that anecdotes would be safely anonymous but I wonder....the other half of my practice is anaesthesia in a regional hospital and part of our duty is the compulsory 6 month training in anaesthesia for emergency physicians, ICU specialists and rural GPs.I was taking a new (ED) registrar through the hospital and took her through the ED. Hearing a high pitched yowling coming from a cubicle she remarked "I didn't know Janice lived up this way"....don't ever forget that 60% of health service resources gets taken up by 5% of patients (I made this statistic up)(.A particular favourite is the lady who photographs her bowel actions and carefully pastes them (the photos not the...) into an album ;every week she turns up at the ED and insists on some hapless resident going through the folder with her to spot any abnormalities.Does this anecdote make her identifiable?)

A Pure Pleasure

I went to church yesterday. The sermon  was  about forgiveness . I do realise that my voluntary presence there should mean that I am an adherent of what is, let's face it, a pretty basic tenet of the Christian faith. 

Yet I can't help but feel a little resentful about losing one of the few pleasures left to me. I am middle-aged, overweight and ridden with cholesterol (therefore low everything diet) asthmatic (no smoking) and arthritic (which means not just less joie de vivre but more paracetamol and more need to watch the other liver toxins).

Hating is pretty much calorie-free,  low cholesterol, non-toxic to the liver and it can even give you a good cardio workout now and then.So I indulge freely.

I hate cyclists amongst other things. For the pedant I would point out that this is a grammatically correct statement. I don't just hate cyclists; I hate the way they insert themselves into the spaces that normal folk (pedestrians, motorists,rampaging gila monsters etc) leave between each other.

By cyclists I mean those lycra suited bums-in -the-air, nose-on -the-handlebar types that infest our roads in geometrical formations of lime green and lemon and tropical mandarin. Their heads are covered with sculptured helmets resembling frozen wave formations and their numbed nuts and torsos decorated with industrial logos (does anyone actually sponsor these people or is this their substitute for having friends?) (I do exempt school children and bicycle-clipped pensioners from my wrath.)

Cyclists are not required to carry third party insurance nor do they display any identification.This apparently means that they are exempted from speeding or traffic light violations where cameras would otherwise be used and if in (for example) running a red light they are collected by a car , the car's driver bears the brunt of the costs.

My attitude to cyclists is not a common one in my profession or in my specialty; most doctors feel they should pay lip service to the claimed health advantages and carbon saving superiority of the pernicious peddlers. 

 Anaesthetists in particular are prey to the lure of the lycra.In fact at any anaesthetic conference in this country the free afternoon includes a group bicycle ride wherein the natives of whatever unfortunate state is hosting the said knees -up are forced to watch the arses of several dozen whippet thin non smoking vegetarian middleaged gasmen disappearing over the horizon of their capital city.

I once played the part of a patient in a mock exam. I got to choose the scenario as long as the patient had an acceptable story for a chronic pain patient and the real patient volunteers were mixed in with the actors.I chose to be a middle-aged histrionic who had been run over by a bicycle and was left with an ulnar nerve injury and a pathological hatred of cyclists .I worked myself into a foaming rage with such verisimilitude that the first candidate hit the stress-call button .Luckily Security didn't come.

I also hate my cat.It was foisted on me 16 years ago and has cost a fortune in food, boarding fees and vetinary care.

I thought we had an escape some five years ago when it was bitten by a snake.We came home to find it lying on the porch .It looked quite normal we thought -until the Urban Terrorist poked at it and it slid stiffly off the verandah and into the bushes with all the grace of the Queen Mary. Only daughter-of-mine's fondness for the beast saved it then - the anti-venom ,steroids and "intensive care" (an oxygen tent and a methadone drip and no actual supervision overnight) all racked up over a thousand dollars.  It was worth it , I thought, to see the affection between my darling child and her pet.

 The other day I was driving into the house when the cat leaped out screeched across a parked car with open claws and bounded into a nearby tree.  I cursed "When will that bloody animal die?" D.O.M beside me said softly " about five minutes if you tell me where you keep the shovel".

Knit Your Own Expert

                  I spend a lot of time railing against the proliferation of so-called "expert advice". Why, in a centre of excellence not a million miles from where I work there stands a building which houses the Mary Poppins Institute of the Blindingly Obvious.In this evidence based hall of wonders countless (?taxpayer funded ) nursing academics toil with such fundamental problems of existence as "which intravenous cannula is safest to use?) (note they don't ask "which intravenous cannula is easiest or most efficient or less painful" and their ceaseless sifting of evidence does not actually include asking the grunts) but lo! they speak and now it is that I am given blunt thingummies that retract on insertion to place in the non-existent veins of needle-phobic CRPS sufferers.

              (I must ask Daughter -of-Mine for an appropriate icon to follow the words "Evidence -Based"..it should look both portentous and profound...it should call to mind the faint echo of a gregorian chant mixed with a whiff of incense ...whilst breathing a gently cold chill down one's back . I'm sure she will know how.)

             In fact I don't need the Institute any more. I have something so much better. I have a 17 year old daughter. A conversation with her is like watching a sex education film circa 1970-- the ones where the frame is frozen and an authoritative  figure in a white coat  and horn-rimmed glasses indicates the unpleasant bits with a pointer whilst turning intermittently and hectoring the audience.

           We were having a Sunday roast lunch the other day and my efforts to engage the Urban Terrorist in a conversation on Global Warming (O.K. 2/3 rds of the way to a bad outcome already and possibly more after he revealed his plan to save mankind by constructing a giant fart collector and shooting the accumulated methane into outer space) were somewhat hampered by D.O.M.'s running commentary on how one should hold a conversation with a 9 year old.

           I finally said in exasperation "Look, it's difficult enough trying to mother this child without you sitting on my shoulder like some malevolent Jimminy Cricket." "You're the second person who's called me that this week." she answered. I repeated "I'm the second person who's called you a malevolent Jimminy Cricket in a week?""Yes"she replied,apparently unperturbed"At least Samuel-at-school said it was like being followed around by Jimminy Cricket's bitch of a sister so I suppose that's the same thing".

           It is amazing that she combines insight of her actions ( or at least acknowledgment of their effect on others) with such a total lack of caring about either.

          I had a haircut this week. I loathe having my neck touched so as usual I asked that it be cut extra short to prolong the interval between cuts. (I used to go to my sister-in law's house and down a half bottle of merlot preparatory to the ordeal but I eventually noticed that she was downing the other half which made me even more nervous- now I go to her salon.) After the haircut I tend to use more make-up (or rather I DO use make-up) in an semi-conscious effort to look less butch. "Mmmmm"said D.O.M. "Only now of course you look like a bloke in drag."

.

         

Is this Sex Ed?

  On Thursdays I pick up the Urban Terrorist(9 y.o.) from after school care early for his football practice. I send him off to the middle school toilets to change into his gear first which means that I can then drive to the footy club and shove him out the car more or less without stopping.(quality time is so important n'est pas?)

   A few weeks ago he came running out of the toilets waving a condom he had found.My (obvious I thought ) question was -had it been used?This generated a discussion which made the playground supervisor purse her lips a little i.e. how much chance would you have of contracting HIV or Hep C from cutaneous contact with the contents of a condom?We were exploring the effects of time and drying when the supervisor took me aside.This had happened before, she told me (thinks-how active exactly are the middle school population around here?) The problem was, she said, not that he had brought it out of the toilets but that he had proceeded to explain to the other children just what it was used for.

  It reminded me of the time when Daughter-of -Mine came to a sex education lecture with us.It was that precious Life Education Group who travel from school to school and offer lectures for parents and children.D.O.M. was 8 at the time.We sat in a darkened lecture theatre while a jolly-hockey -sticks type ran through the introductory patter which went something like "first the mummy and daddy who love each other very much go into their bedroom and kiss and hug and touch each other in a very special way and..."..at which point a bored DOM said in a penetrating voice "why doesn't he just stick it in and get it over with?"The bloke behind leant over and said "now there's a quote to save for the wedding speeches"

Nanny Says

  I was in a particularly foul mood as I went round the hospital the other day. Stern reminders and self righteous exhortations stared up at me from every available flat surface.

  In the toilet I was reminded to wash my hands, invited to dispose of my sharps safely and intimately asked if I had had a smear lately.

  Over the wash basin in the ward I was not just asked to wash my hands- I was shown in a step by step diagram and cheerily threatened with the "glitter squad"(I asked- they use some sort of dye in the soap that shows up on your skin in U.V. light and shames you by showing where you haven't washed).

  Signs everywhere informed me that the staff were entitled to be treated with courtesy,that I must not use a mobile phone because of sensitive equipment (see last post) and that I should not be visiting if I was showing the early stages of everything from SARS to Ebola.

  It was nearly the last straw when, in the tearoom I noticed that the filter pot was standing on a mat giving the accurate standard drinks count in various bottles and glasses."You're a COFFEE MACHINE" I shouted at it "What do you care?"

 But it WAS absolutely the last straw when I walked through the long corridor connecting the clinics to one of the ward blocks .The offices of one of the surgical research units take up one side of the corridor and posted at intervals along the wall (for some reason at knee height)were photocopied A4 pages which read "These walls are paper thin and we can hear every word. We are working very hard so please don't make so much noise."

  Now every time I go down that corridor I aim a kick at each and every notice They are very conveniently placed for this, it gives me good excercise (or did I not mention the signs in every stairwell that exhort me to do this ?) and it makes me feel more cheerful.

No Hat No Play No nsense

I picked up the Urban Terrorist from after school care the other day.It was half past five on a cloudy winter's day- barely a glimmer of light in the sky. U.T. was playing hand ball outside with three other children- all wearing hats .

 

The after school care  has a blanket"guideline"of No Hat No Play

No-one seems to know the difference between a guideline and a rule or policy.

When asked why they blame the National Childcare Accreditation people and the Anti-Cancer Council. This only works until some-one e-mails those and confirms that No Hat No Play is essentially crap .

Attempting to discuss sunlight hours needed for good or ill depending on time of year ,weather patterns ,skin type etc or discussion of vitamin D levels or requirements is useless- "the guidelines say so".

Pointing out  all of the above to the people who look after your obnoxious offspring with patience and good humour day after day is probably not wise.

So why do it?

Because every now and then I make a pathetic attempt to fight the dumbing down of evidence based practice .

Because I hate that guidelines-a summary of the evidence and  advice for best practice - are corrupted into inviolable laws in an obscene game of managerial chinese whispers.

Because I want to see people who are good at their jobs allowed to use their judgement and I want to see people who don't have that judgement exposed.

Because I am a miserable mad old bat who likes ranting.

So why do it?

Resignation Dominoes-the new game from SAHC

On Friday half the salaried Emergency Physicians quit.On Monday  a third of the anaesthetists.Today another group - generating a  great headline in the local paper "Colorectal surgeon says "We've had a gutful".

CME aka my 360 degree self reflecting split personality

I went to the College of Anaesthetists Annual Scientific Meeting last month.They have recently changed MOPS (Maintenance of Professional Standards) program to CME (continuous medical education).O.K. I can live with that. Except that the wankers have really been to town on this one.I used to have to submit evidence that I'd read journals, been to scientific meetings, taught undergraduates and post graduates and been involved in exams, audits, meetings etc. Fair enough although you might wonder how I could avoid all of that with a full time post at a public teaching hospital (now part-time but that's another story).

My problem began with the almost 16 downloads required to explain the new program. Apparently I'm not just an anaesthetist any more. I'm The-Anaesthetist -as -teacher and The-Anaesthetist -as- Scholar and The -Anaesthetist-as -Manager (or something like that -I may have blanked out a bit)--and I must maintain a "reflective diary" in which I perform "360 degree viewing " (which conjures up a frightful picture) in all these areas.

What the hell am I paying these people thousands of dollars a year for?

And YET- my registrars can't find a helpful person on the phone when they have problems with their exams.

 

I Spawned a Fogan

Number 1 Son called me the other day. He's just moved in with his girlfriend (sorry, (shudder) the missus). Having refused his grandfather's offer of free second hand furniture he embarked on a 6 week spending spree . Luckily they are limited by having to cram it all into a space slightly bigger than my loungeroom (known to the estate agents as a studio apartment).

               I interrupted his enthusiastic description of (I think) matching bookshelves and coffee tables with an unfortunate yawn. He then said condescendingly - "you know Mum, people these days like nice things. They don't just live in houses full of random furniture like you do."

               He's 19. He couldn't wait to leave school, get a job, settle down with his girlfriend and devote his evenings to the scintillating joys of DVDs on their mega plasma screen and steak meals at the local pub.

              What's a good term for some-one half way between a bogan and a young fogey?- How about a young Bogey? Or a Young Fogan?