- Email: [email protected]
SHAME
1092
SHAME SHAME is a non-profit organisation that aims to provide immediate counselling and general advice and to recommend legal and medical experts to the families of individuals who believe that the serious injury or death of a loved one was due to a medical or hospital blunder. Information from PO Box 843, London SE6 2BD, UK (membership /;15.00pa).
Dialogue on Diarrhoea Dialogue on Diarrhoea has reached its
50th issue. The
quarterly
newsletter, started 12 years ago, now reaches more than a quarter of a million
readers in 172 countries. As the first article in the 50th issue
points out, management of diarrhoea has improved considerably since 1980 and the number of deaths from diarrhoea has decreased as remarkable the fact that less than 1% of those affected in the current Latin-American cholera epidemic have died and ascribes this low figure to a decade or so of training in diarrhoea control. Some important paths to be explored over the next 12 years were identified. These include the elimination of unnecessary and harmful use of antidiarrhoeal drugs, continued nutritional research, the integration of diarrhoea-control activities with other health-promoting measures, and the development of cost-effective antidiarrhoeal vaccines.
sharply. It describes
Dialogue on Diarrhoea is published by AHRTAG (Appropriate Health Resources and Technologies Action Group Ltd), 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9SG, UK. It is available free of charge to readers in developing countries and students from developing countries, and through annual subscription (UK10/US$20) to readers elsewhere. The newsletter is published quarterly m English, Bengali, French, Nepali, Spanish, Portuguese, Tamil, and Chinese.
In
England
Now
My invitation to lecture was to be fulfilled in Katowice but I had fly to Krakow on the LOT Warsaw flight and complete the journey by road. My wife suggested extra insurance-she trusted only British pilots and, occasionally, Australian. I reminded her about the Polish pilots’ participation in the Battle of Britain, but omitted their reputation of daring. At the check-in there was a long delay, for a passenger was insisting on a seat near the emergency exit. I could not imagine why and paused only briefly at the Insurance Bureau before going for the duty-free instead. The plane was elderly but clean. Take-off was a bit of a rattle and I passed on the dinner, hoping to eat at the other end. Two hours later we touched down at Krakow. Bang! The plane lurched and came to a halt in mid-runway. The lights went out, and a fire engine appeared. The air hostesses looked furtively at one another. "Flat tyre", said the businessman opposite. We both peered into the darkness. Just beyond the wing a fuel tanker lay on its side, spilling fuel on to the runway, and the wing of our plane was also leaking. No sooner had
why we were served no wine-reserved for the captain". His accent, happily, was too thick for the Polish bystanders. He then pronounced himself proud not to have had another heart attack. "I’ve had three already you know."Icould see why. Then there was the long silence with no announcement and no activity. I could not leave anyway, because my passport was in my briefcase about to be incinerated or covered with foam. The second item essential for foreign travel-my wallet of slides-was also in the plane. No slides, no lecture. After an hour and a half a young woman approached me. "Are you the professor from Oxford?" The correct answer was "No, not now, not ever", but I said yes, taking an option on the prospect of help. "Your friends", she said, "have not deserted you, you must not be afraid". Presumably Oxford professors are prone to being deserted and left, afraid, in Krakow. To kill time I read the novel lent by a colleague, who had prophetically promised "an excellent air-travel read". I read my journal. I then read my newspaper, including the television page, to see whether I was missing anything. I was. "Choice. A Very Polish Practice, 9.25 BBCI. Andrew Davies’ satire." Four hours later my case appeared, and I rewarded my patience with a Lord Lambourn, picked in my garden that afternoon. There were some very funny looks from my smoking, coffee-drinking fellow passengers as I crunched noisily through this apple, hoping to avoid the codling moth. A British rambler lent me his guide book. "Silesia", I read, "classified as an ecological disaster area by the Polish Academy of Sciences. Katowice-not worth a visit". Another hour and my briefcase appeared, with slides and passport and my friendly and loyal minders then took me to Katowice. I had two hours’ sleep and the sixty people in the huge auditorium could manage only perfunctory but polite applause. It was not my best performance, I feel. The following afternoon was bleak, but whatever the weather it would have been bleak, for we drove to Oswiecim-Brzezinka, more usually known by its German name Auschwitz-Birkenhau. Home next day, by LOT again, without a hitch.
to
we the curious passengers been told to sit down, strap in, and await instructions when with a sudden whoosh the door was open and air hostesses were shouting, in Polish, and gesticulating. The passengers ahead of me thought this was an invitation to make an orderly exit and started gathering their baggage. I darted between them and slid down the chute clutching my Independent on Sunday, a novel, and a medical journal. I landed comfortably enough and walked casually away into the grass. I then realised that I was taking my determination not to panic a bit far, so ran along the runway until I spotted the lights of a plane coming in to land. I ran back on to the grass, but then thought that the incoming pilot would use this in preference to the blocked runway. The plane seemed to be heading for me when its angle of approach became apparent and it landed next door. There was still no sign of any airport staff or police so the passengers, including the UK’s employment minister (in Poland?), started to walk to the distant terminal building. More shouting, and we broke into a run, to be met at the terminal by police wearing General Jaruzelski caps and officials with Lech Walesa moustaches. The Polish passengers, many planning to continue on to Warsaw, took their seats in the terminal building with no sign of irritation. A British businessman decided it was time for humour: "Now I know
*
*
*
It all began with my spouse. Some time ago the health authority had kindly provided a stack of leaflets for patients, and they were still lying around the department. As a supplement to advice hastily given or misheard in our busy clinics the dial-a-disease help line seemed quite a good idea. It ran from A for AIDS to W for women’s sexual response (M was silent at this point). Seeking assistance on neither trouble, our eyes were caught by a curiosity under infectious diseases. To find out more about IVPs or IVUs ring such-andsuch. So we did, intrigued to learn the germ theory of contrast radiology. And we got a British Telecom demo tape offering help on damp-proofmg (urology surely) and a trivia quiz (suggestions please). Bee stings elicited the same reaction so to speak. Anorexia looked promising; that at least was being updated. Acupuncture threw up racing information: some horses in the 2 o’clock at York had runny noses we learned. After toothache and the prostate the penny dropped. The NHS direct service is defunct and the ashes of its dedicated telephone lines are scattered. The service’s comment line has gone to travel information. Fired up to complain we were urged to try Turkey "in the footsteps of St Paul"-and in the wake of the also-rans at York too no doubt. The coordinating hospital confirmed the service’s demise-and no, we could not get our money back on all those losers with rhinitis. The leaflets have been binned now but some of the fun has gone out of being ill. *
I had
to
*
*
go to Ireland at short notice for my uncle’s funeral and
hurriedly packed an overnight bag. In went the black suit, white shirt, and black shoes but, on the way to the airport, I realised I had forgotten my black tie. Luckily, the airport shopping arcade was full of those shops that sell only one product-socks or perfume or croissants. And there was a tie shop, with ties of every shape and colour; bow-ties, psychedelic and fluorescent ties, fat ones and thin ones, leather ties, and ties with flashing, revolving lights. There were patterns, stripes, pictures, polka dots, and rainbows, but nothing for the funeral. I had to ask the assistant for help. He searched the back of the shop and managed to find a plain black tie. "And would you like it gift-wrapped, Sir?"
SHAME SHAME is a non-profit organisation that aims to provide immediate counselling and general advice and to recommend legal and medical experts to the families of individuals who believe that the serious injury or death of a loved one was due to a medical or hospital blunder. Information from PO Box 843, London SE6 2BD, UK (membership /;15.00pa).
Dialogue on Diarrhoea Dialogue on Diarrhoea has reached its
50th issue. The
quarterly
newsletter, started 12 years ago, now reaches more than a quarter of a million
readers in 172 countries. As the first article in the 50th issue
points out, management of diarrhoea has improved considerably since 1980 and the number of deaths from diarrhoea has decreased as remarkable the fact that less than 1% of those affected in the current Latin-American cholera epidemic have died and ascribes this low figure to a decade or so of training in diarrhoea control. Some important paths to be explored over the next 12 years were identified. These include the elimination of unnecessary and harmful use of antidiarrhoeal drugs, continued nutritional research, the integration of diarrhoea-control activities with other health-promoting measures, and the development of cost-effective antidiarrhoeal vaccines.
sharply. It describes
Dialogue on Diarrhoea is published by AHRTAG (Appropriate Health Resources and Technologies Action Group Ltd), 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9SG, UK. It is available free of charge to readers in developing countries and students from developing countries, and through annual subscription (UK10/US$20) to readers elsewhere. The newsletter is published quarterly m English, Bengali, French, Nepali, Spanish, Portuguese, Tamil, and Chinese.
In
England
Now
My invitation to lecture was to be fulfilled in Katowice but I had fly to Krakow on the LOT Warsaw flight and complete the journey by road. My wife suggested extra insurance-she trusted only British pilots and, occasionally, Australian. I reminded her about the Polish pilots’ participation in the Battle of Britain, but omitted their reputation of daring. At the check-in there was a long delay, for a passenger was insisting on a seat near the emergency exit. I could not imagine why and paused only briefly at the Insurance Bureau before going for the duty-free instead. The plane was elderly but clean. Take-off was a bit of a rattle and I passed on the dinner, hoping to eat at the other end. Two hours later we touched down at Krakow. Bang! The plane lurched and came to a halt in mid-runway. The lights went out, and a fire engine appeared. The air hostesses looked furtively at one another. "Flat tyre", said the businessman opposite. We both peered into the darkness. Just beyond the wing a fuel tanker lay on its side, spilling fuel on to the runway, and the wing of our plane was also leaking. No sooner had
why we were served no wine-reserved for the captain". His accent, happily, was too thick for the Polish bystanders. He then pronounced himself proud not to have had another heart attack. "I’ve had three already you know."Icould see why. Then there was the long silence with no announcement and no activity. I could not leave anyway, because my passport was in my briefcase about to be incinerated or covered with foam. The second item essential for foreign travel-my wallet of slides-was also in the plane. No slides, no lecture. After an hour and a half a young woman approached me. "Are you the professor from Oxford?" The correct answer was "No, not now, not ever", but I said yes, taking an option on the prospect of help. "Your friends", she said, "have not deserted you, you must not be afraid". Presumably Oxford professors are prone to being deserted and left, afraid, in Krakow. To kill time I read the novel lent by a colleague, who had prophetically promised "an excellent air-travel read". I read my journal. I then read my newspaper, including the television page, to see whether I was missing anything. I was. "Choice. A Very Polish Practice, 9.25 BBCI. Andrew Davies’ satire." Four hours later my case appeared, and I rewarded my patience with a Lord Lambourn, picked in my garden that afternoon. There were some very funny looks from my smoking, coffee-drinking fellow passengers as I crunched noisily through this apple, hoping to avoid the codling moth. A British rambler lent me his guide book. "Silesia", I read, "classified as an ecological disaster area by the Polish Academy of Sciences. Katowice-not worth a visit". Another hour and my briefcase appeared, with slides and passport and my friendly and loyal minders then took me to Katowice. I had two hours’ sleep and the sixty people in the huge auditorium could manage only perfunctory but polite applause. It was not my best performance, I feel. The following afternoon was bleak, but whatever the weather it would have been bleak, for we drove to Oswiecim-Brzezinka, more usually known by its German name Auschwitz-Birkenhau. Home next day, by LOT again, without a hitch.
to
we the curious passengers been told to sit down, strap in, and await instructions when with a sudden whoosh the door was open and air hostesses were shouting, in Polish, and gesticulating. The passengers ahead of me thought this was an invitation to make an orderly exit and started gathering their baggage. I darted between them and slid down the chute clutching my Independent on Sunday, a novel, and a medical journal. I landed comfortably enough and walked casually away into the grass. I then realised that I was taking my determination not to panic a bit far, so ran along the runway until I spotted the lights of a plane coming in to land. I ran back on to the grass, but then thought that the incoming pilot would use this in preference to the blocked runway. The plane seemed to be heading for me when its angle of approach became apparent and it landed next door. There was still no sign of any airport staff or police so the passengers, including the UK’s employment minister (in Poland?), started to walk to the distant terminal building. More shouting, and we broke into a run, to be met at the terminal by police wearing General Jaruzelski caps and officials with Lech Walesa moustaches. The Polish passengers, many planning to continue on to Warsaw, took their seats in the terminal building with no sign of irritation. A British businessman decided it was time for humour: "Now I know
*
*
*
It all began with my spouse. Some time ago the health authority had kindly provided a stack of leaflets for patients, and they were still lying around the department. As a supplement to advice hastily given or misheard in our busy clinics the dial-a-disease help line seemed quite a good idea. It ran from A for AIDS to W for women’s sexual response (M was silent at this point). Seeking assistance on neither trouble, our eyes were caught by a curiosity under infectious diseases. To find out more about IVPs or IVUs ring such-andsuch. So we did, intrigued to learn the germ theory of contrast radiology. And we got a British Telecom demo tape offering help on damp-proofmg (urology surely) and a trivia quiz (suggestions please). Bee stings elicited the same reaction so to speak. Anorexia looked promising; that at least was being updated. Acupuncture threw up racing information: some horses in the 2 o’clock at York had runny noses we learned. After toothache and the prostate the penny dropped. The NHS direct service is defunct and the ashes of its dedicated telephone lines are scattered. The service’s comment line has gone to travel information. Fired up to complain we were urged to try Turkey "in the footsteps of St Paul"-and in the wake of the also-rans at York too no doubt. The coordinating hospital confirmed the service’s demise-and no, we could not get our money back on all those losers with rhinitis. The leaflets have been binned now but some of the fun has gone out of being ill. *
I had
to
*
*
go to Ireland at short notice for my uncle’s funeral and
hurriedly packed an overnight bag. In went the black suit, white shirt, and black shoes but, on the way to the airport, I realised I had forgotten my black tie. Luckily, the airport shopping arcade was full of those shops that sell only one product-socks or perfume or croissants. And there was a tie shop, with ties of every shape and colour; bow-ties, psychedelic and fluorescent ties, fat ones and thin ones, leather ties, and ties with flashing, revolving lights. There were patterns, stripes, pictures, polka dots, and rainbows, but nothing for the funeral. I had to ask the assistant for help. He searched the back of the shop and managed to find a plain black tie. "And would you like it gift-wrapped, Sir?"