with the title ‘La Boheme’ on it and a cover photo of a handsome young couple whom she immediately recognised as Tim and Jemma, the opera singers. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of the silver disk inside the case but she was mesmerised by the way the surface diffracted light and shimmered like a butterfly’s wings. It suddenly dawned on her that she was holding a compact disc, a replacement for the LP that had only just come on the market. Sadly, she realised that it would probably take months of salary slips before she’d be able to afford the equipment to play it on. In addition to the compact disc, there was also a small photo of Tim and Jemma and their baby. On the back there was the same italic writing and Jemma read:
‘Dear Jemma,
Our first ever compact disc! We’re thinking of you.
Kindest regards,
Tim, Jemma and Sian
P.S. The placentaà la française was heavenly!’
Emma thought that sooner or later she’d be returning to Oxford.
August 1987
The introduction for house officers starting their first surgical job was held in a severely raked lecture theatre in the bowels of the hospital. It looked as if it had been an operating theatre at some point in its past and smelt of carbolic. A tall, distinguished looking man in a Saville Row suit entered, with sleek grey hair and bow tie, followed by a mini-me version, who Emma guessed was his registrar.
“Good morning, doctors. My name is Professor Cuthbertson and I am Head of Surgery. Today is the most important day of your career. You will be taking the first step from clinical virginity to consummate practitioner. You will do this by learning not from books but from patients and the operating theatre. You will discover that surgery is a craft demanding a lifetime of practice and dedication. You can give an amateur a Stradivarius but it will only be a violin; only a virtuoso will make it sing. Surgeons must strive to be both the conductor and virtuoso of their instrument. Although you may be only mere beginners in the art, I will expect nothing less than the highest standards of professionalism. Hard work will be expected and rewarded, but excuses will not be accepted. You have all been allocated to firms and your work starts after this meeting. Now, where is Dr Jones?”
“That’s me, sir,” said Emma.
“Dr Jones, matron has asked that you present yourself to her after this meeting.”
There was a giggle from other house officers. Emma felt singled out for no reason other than him using her to exert his superiority.
“Very well. Please collect your badges, white coats and bleeps. Ward rounds are at 8:00 a.m. sharp and I expect you to know all your patients. Good day to you all.”
“Good day, sir,” the house officers said in perfect synchrony.
Professor Cuthbertson walked out imperiously, his mini-me in tow.
A baptism of fire is what Emma expected and a baptism of fire is what she received. Unfortunately, Prof Cuthbertson was the consultant on her surgical firm.
Emma made her way to Ward A1, which happened to be the main ward for general surgery. Double doors opened onto a cavernous space with beds on both sides and a nurses’ station in the centre. A smell of antiseptic with undertones of urine and anaerobic infection pervaded the space. Patients were male and most seemed to be elderly.
“You!” a voice boomed.
Emma turned suddenly to be confronted by a bloated figure in blue, who was obviously the matron judging by her elaborate headdress. It’s Hattie Jacques, Emma thought.
“Where’s your coat and badge?” she asked.
“I wasn’t told anything about that; just to come and see you before I picked up my bleep,” said Emma.
“Doctor, your professional identity comes first, so I suggest you go to medical staffing and only return to the ward when you are suitably attired.”
Matron retreated into her office, the view of her stern as formidable as her aft. It reminded Emma of
‘Dear Jemma,
Our first ever compact disc! We’re thinking of you.
Kindest regards,
Tim, Jemma and Sian
P.S. The placentaà la française was heavenly!’
Emma thought that sooner or later she’d be returning to Oxford.
August 1987
The introduction for house officers starting their first surgical job was held in a severely raked lecture theatre in the bowels of the hospital. It looked as if it had been an operating theatre at some point in its past and smelt of carbolic. A tall, distinguished looking man in a Saville Row suit entered, with sleek grey hair and bow tie, followed by a mini-me version, who Emma guessed was his registrar.
“Good morning, doctors. My name is Professor Cuthbertson and I am Head of Surgery. Today is the most important day of your career. You will be taking the first step from clinical virginity to consummate practitioner. You will do this by learning not from books but from patients and the operating theatre. You will discover that surgery is a craft demanding a lifetime of practice and dedication. You can give an amateur a Stradivarius but it will only be a violin; only a virtuoso will make it sing. Surgeons must strive to be both the conductor and virtuoso of their instrument. Although you may be only mere beginners in the art, I will expect nothing less than the highest standards of professionalism. Hard work will be expected and rewarded, but excuses will not be accepted. You have all been allocated to firms and your work starts after this meeting. Now, where is Dr Jones?”
“That’s me, sir,” said Emma.
“Dr Jones, matron has asked that you present yourself to her after this meeting.”
There was a giggle from other house officers. Emma felt singled out for no reason other than him using her to exert his superiority.
“Very well. Please collect your badges, white coats and bleeps. Ward rounds are at 8:00 a.m. sharp and I expect you to know all your patients. Good day to you all.”
“Good day, sir,” the house officers said in perfect synchrony.
Professor Cuthbertson walked out imperiously, his mini-me in tow.
A baptism of fire is what Emma expected and a baptism of fire is what she received. Unfortunately, Prof Cuthbertson was the consultant on her surgical firm.
Emma made her way to Ward A1, which happened to be the main ward for general surgery. Double doors opened onto a cavernous space with beds on both sides and a nurses’ station in the centre. A smell of antiseptic with undertones of urine and anaerobic infection pervaded the space. Patients were male and most seemed to be elderly.
“You!” a voice boomed.
Emma turned suddenly to be confronted by a bloated figure in blue, who was obviously the matron judging by her elaborate headdress. It’s Hattie Jacques, Emma thought.
“Where’s your coat and badge?” she asked.
“I wasn’t told anything about that; just to come and see you before I picked up my bleep,” said Emma.
“Doctor, your professional identity comes first, so I suggest you go to medical staffing and only return to the ward when you are suitably attired.”
Matron retreated into her office, the view of her stern as formidable as her aft. It reminded Emma of
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