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In England Now
882
In
England Now
I HAVE just finished examining our local gym teacher. He had been a combat instructor in the Forces before leaving to take up his new appointment in the old school down the road. Although a strict disciplinarian, his toughness and physical fitness won him the respect of pupils and colleagues alike. He has just asked me to certify
that the balance of his mind is disturbed and that he is not responsible for his actions. Apparently he had been taking a particularly unruly class and in order to control one youth, wilder than the others, he had eventually resorted to that familiar instrument, the leather strap. The boy left the class in high dudgeon, threatening that his father would call immediately to sort him out. My patient was understandably upset and sought the advice of his headmaster. That individual suggested the best thing to do would be to take a week’s leave immediately. The boy’s father was a notorious local hard man, who would undoubtedly seek revenge. He returned to his work more than a little disturbed. That afternoon, in the middle of a class, the door burst open and a large man entered the gym, taking off his jacket as he came. The janitor followed hot on his heels. Believing, of course, that attack was the best defence, my patient ran to meet him and, without a word, knocked him flat with a right to the jaw. As the man collapsed at his feet, the janitor let out a yell of horror. "What have you done to the Clerk of Works?" he cried. "He was only here to mend the " windows."
*
*
*
I HAVE yet to meet anybody who has read The Magic Mountain from cover to cover. I have tried time and time again, but have always got bogged down, put it aside, and, a year or two later, started at the beginning again. How much can I remember? (No cheating, I promise: the volume shall remain on its shelf). I’m a bit hazy, but it begins something like this. A young military gentleman, finding himself in the vicinity of an Alpine sanatorium, decides to look up his brother (cousin?), who is under treatment there. He is warmly welcomed by the medical superintendent, at whose suggestion he agrees to follow the regimen. He is taught how to "smoke his silver cigar" (the doctor’s facetious euphemism for taking his mouth temperature), and is told that a little modified treatment would not do him any harm. So he becomes an ambulant
has had lots of provocation but no alibi: he is too much of a gent to implicate his girlfriend with whom he spent the crucial hours. There are shoals of red herrings, skeletons in cupboards, hints of blackmail, unscrupulous undertakers, graffiti on the walls of the mortuary, and other crimeyard cliches. All will be made clear in the last chapter when an unexplained Oxford don harangues the assembly in the commonroom. He builds up convincing cases against each individual in turn, only to discard them, and eventually unmasks the culprit. It is the medical superintendent who, under pretence of keeping an illicit sanatorium, is a receiver of stolen goods. That’s the best I can do; and I bet I have got it wrong. I can see I shall have to hire someone to read the book for me.
*
*
*
I SUSPECT every doctor has a hobby horse. Mine is the concept of the male menopause. Like all hobby horses it tends to be ridden in the most inappropriate places. With me it was with an audience of community nurses, most of whom were happily married ladies. Although the subject of my talk was infectious disease, my "King Charles’ head" took up most of the discussion period. Shortly thereafter, a letter arrived from a leading nursing journal. Would I care to write about the male menopause? Would I not! This was my big chance. Since then, I have to say, my life has been misery. The popular press seized upon the article; the local radio and television stations interviewed me; and our village newspaper conducted a fearless, in-depth, investigative journalistic search into my professional life and personal character. My friends are looking at me strangely and strangers are treating me as a friend. They tell me the most improbable stories in the most inappropriate places. My wife’s bridge brigade converge upon me to relate the odd habits of their husbands, who, in turn, are beginning to avoid me on the
golf course. My son is thoroughly embarrassed. Being a qualified accountant of some four months’ duration, he judged the whole thing to be quite unprofessional, even unethical. He says that if any more of his cronies inquire kindly after the health and emotional state of his poor old dad, he will disown me publicly. A few good things have, however, emerged. I have purged it from my system; some people seemed to like what I wrote; a few even said it helped them and their spouses; and my wife seems to humour me a little bit more. Perhaps that is the treatment I was hinting at, when I wrote the wretched piece in the first place. *
*
*
patient. The regimen for ambulant patients seemed somewhat undisciplined by later standards: a couple of hours recumbent on a sun balcony in the middle of the day; otherwise they just mooch around, play cards, and gossip. The bedroom next to our hero’s contains a couple of naughty Russians, whose incessant bumping and squeaking he finds all too distracting. Then there is the door to the commonroom with leaded glass panels which rattle irritatingly whenever anyone slams it. A particular offender in this respect is a vague young woman of whom our hero becomes increasingly aware. There comes a terribly exciting moment when he lends her his pencil: the Freudian significance of which is not overlooked. It isn’t long before they get going in a big way, with passionate speeches, unfortunately transcribed in French with, I suspect, a wealth of anatomical argot; and my lower-fourth French isn’t up to it. (Am I misremembering, or did he really wear her X-ray next his manly bosom?) Then there was a crashing bore, Settimbrini, who held forth page after page with a sort of undergraduate diabolism. I forget-if I understood-exactly what he was driving at. It was at this point that I gave up the struggle; so I don’t know how the narrative ended. I surmise that our hero decided that he had had enough, and packed his bags. But I may be wrong. Maybe those first few hundred pages were merely a preamble, a setting of the scene for a riproaring whodunnit. It is now time for a little action-but what? Inevitably someone will strangle Settimbrini. Suspicion falls on our hero, who
I have always been something of a hypochondriac. A slight cough and sniffle makes me think longingly of antipyretics, hot lemon drinks, and bed. A septic spot drives me immediately to my illicit supply of antibiotics and only by a real effort of will do I refrain from starting a course. A garden scratch puts me in mind of tetanus and septicaemia; and as for vague abdominal pains, I need hardly describe my differential diagnosis. What keeps me in check is the experience of a friend and fellow sufferer, an architect by profession. I used to see him regularly when he would regale me, at length, with the symptoms of his mild dyspepsia and the devastating effects certain foods had on his digestive tract. I would listen patiently and eventually dole him out a few of the pills I keep in an old brown-ribbed medicine bottle. This kept him more than happy. He was sent along one day to upgrade the wards of our professor of surgery. The opportunity was too good to miss. After the space had been allocated to everyone’s satisfaction, he unburdened himself to the great man. A diagnosis was reached within minutes; he was inside the ward within 48 hours; and on the table within the week. One of the hitching operations was executed with flair and eclat. He was home in the fortnight and returned to work three months later. He still comes to see me for a chat about his stomach and a few of my mild carminative pills. He swears that, but for the professor’s timely intervention, he would have been a dead man. I
SUPPOSE
In
England Now
I HAVE just finished examining our local gym teacher. He had been a combat instructor in the Forces before leaving to take up his new appointment in the old school down the road. Although a strict disciplinarian, his toughness and physical fitness won him the respect of pupils and colleagues alike. He has just asked me to certify
that the balance of his mind is disturbed and that he is not responsible for his actions. Apparently he had been taking a particularly unruly class and in order to control one youth, wilder than the others, he had eventually resorted to that familiar instrument, the leather strap. The boy left the class in high dudgeon, threatening that his father would call immediately to sort him out. My patient was understandably upset and sought the advice of his headmaster. That individual suggested the best thing to do would be to take a week’s leave immediately. The boy’s father was a notorious local hard man, who would undoubtedly seek revenge. He returned to his work more than a little disturbed. That afternoon, in the middle of a class, the door burst open and a large man entered the gym, taking off his jacket as he came. The janitor followed hot on his heels. Believing, of course, that attack was the best defence, my patient ran to meet him and, without a word, knocked him flat with a right to the jaw. As the man collapsed at his feet, the janitor let out a yell of horror. "What have you done to the Clerk of Works?" he cried. "He was only here to mend the " windows."
*
*
*
I HAVE yet to meet anybody who has read The Magic Mountain from cover to cover. I have tried time and time again, but have always got bogged down, put it aside, and, a year or two later, started at the beginning again. How much can I remember? (No cheating, I promise: the volume shall remain on its shelf). I’m a bit hazy, but it begins something like this. A young military gentleman, finding himself in the vicinity of an Alpine sanatorium, decides to look up his brother (cousin?), who is under treatment there. He is warmly welcomed by the medical superintendent, at whose suggestion he agrees to follow the regimen. He is taught how to "smoke his silver cigar" (the doctor’s facetious euphemism for taking his mouth temperature), and is told that a little modified treatment would not do him any harm. So he becomes an ambulant
has had lots of provocation but no alibi: he is too much of a gent to implicate his girlfriend with whom he spent the crucial hours. There are shoals of red herrings, skeletons in cupboards, hints of blackmail, unscrupulous undertakers, graffiti on the walls of the mortuary, and other crimeyard cliches. All will be made clear in the last chapter when an unexplained Oxford don harangues the assembly in the commonroom. He builds up convincing cases against each individual in turn, only to discard them, and eventually unmasks the culprit. It is the medical superintendent who, under pretence of keeping an illicit sanatorium, is a receiver of stolen goods. That’s the best I can do; and I bet I have got it wrong. I can see I shall have to hire someone to read the book for me.
*
*
*
I SUSPECT every doctor has a hobby horse. Mine is the concept of the male menopause. Like all hobby horses it tends to be ridden in the most inappropriate places. With me it was with an audience of community nurses, most of whom were happily married ladies. Although the subject of my talk was infectious disease, my "King Charles’ head" took up most of the discussion period. Shortly thereafter, a letter arrived from a leading nursing journal. Would I care to write about the male menopause? Would I not! This was my big chance. Since then, I have to say, my life has been misery. The popular press seized upon the article; the local radio and television stations interviewed me; and our village newspaper conducted a fearless, in-depth, investigative journalistic search into my professional life and personal character. My friends are looking at me strangely and strangers are treating me as a friend. They tell me the most improbable stories in the most inappropriate places. My wife’s bridge brigade converge upon me to relate the odd habits of their husbands, who, in turn, are beginning to avoid me on the
golf course. My son is thoroughly embarrassed. Being a qualified accountant of some four months’ duration, he judged the whole thing to be quite unprofessional, even unethical. He says that if any more of his cronies inquire kindly after the health and emotional state of his poor old dad, he will disown me publicly. A few good things have, however, emerged. I have purged it from my system; some people seemed to like what I wrote; a few even said it helped them and their spouses; and my wife seems to humour me a little bit more. Perhaps that is the treatment I was hinting at, when I wrote the wretched piece in the first place. *
*
*
patient. The regimen for ambulant patients seemed somewhat undisciplined by later standards: a couple of hours recumbent on a sun balcony in the middle of the day; otherwise they just mooch around, play cards, and gossip. The bedroom next to our hero’s contains a couple of naughty Russians, whose incessant bumping and squeaking he finds all too distracting. Then there is the door to the commonroom with leaded glass panels which rattle irritatingly whenever anyone slams it. A particular offender in this respect is a vague young woman of whom our hero becomes increasingly aware. There comes a terribly exciting moment when he lends her his pencil: the Freudian significance of which is not overlooked. It isn’t long before they get going in a big way, with passionate speeches, unfortunately transcribed in French with, I suspect, a wealth of anatomical argot; and my lower-fourth French isn’t up to it. (Am I misremembering, or did he really wear her X-ray next his manly bosom?) Then there was a crashing bore, Settimbrini, who held forth page after page with a sort of undergraduate diabolism. I forget-if I understood-exactly what he was driving at. It was at this point that I gave up the struggle; so I don’t know how the narrative ended. I surmise that our hero decided that he had had enough, and packed his bags. But I may be wrong. Maybe those first few hundred pages were merely a preamble, a setting of the scene for a riproaring whodunnit. It is now time for a little action-but what? Inevitably someone will strangle Settimbrini. Suspicion falls on our hero, who
I have always been something of a hypochondriac. A slight cough and sniffle makes me think longingly of antipyretics, hot lemon drinks, and bed. A septic spot drives me immediately to my illicit supply of antibiotics and only by a real effort of will do I refrain from starting a course. A garden scratch puts me in mind of tetanus and septicaemia; and as for vague abdominal pains, I need hardly describe my differential diagnosis. What keeps me in check is the experience of a friend and fellow sufferer, an architect by profession. I used to see him regularly when he would regale me, at length, with the symptoms of his mild dyspepsia and the devastating effects certain foods had on his digestive tract. I would listen patiently and eventually dole him out a few of the pills I keep in an old brown-ribbed medicine bottle. This kept him more than happy. He was sent along one day to upgrade the wards of our professor of surgery. The opportunity was too good to miss. After the space had been allocated to everyone’s satisfaction, he unburdened himself to the great man. A diagnosis was reached within minutes; he was inside the ward within 48 hours; and on the table within the week. One of the hitching operations was executed with flair and eclat. He was home in the fortnight and returned to work three months later. He still comes to see me for a chat about his stomach and a few of my mild carminative pills. He swears that, but for the professor’s timely intervention, he would have been a dead man. I
SUPPOSE