Ah, it’s 01.08am and I’ve just finished a bit of horrid paperwork. The junior medical (i.e. all below consultant grade; 13 people in all) rota is made out by one of the team, and I’ve just been given the poisoned chalice. The Boss told me on Monday, and as it’s made out on a monthly basis, I have to produce one by tomorrow for dissemination before next week. In Very Excitingness, Batman’s got a job! In Astro City! And he moved home on Tuesday, car loaded with six years’ worth of stuff from Gotham. So you can imagine, on Monday I grocery shopped (as there wasn’t a single green thing in the house, and not much else either), and on Tuesday I cooked, and carried around boxes of stuff, and light sabres, and whatnot. (He really has the best pair of light sabres.) I sat down to the rota on Wednesday, and four hours later, I was no further forward. I had another four hours at it tonight, and am getting there. I’ve done one for next week, to give me a little breathing space, but it’s not much fun. Batman went up Home to visit the family,  and I was so grumpy last  night that he’s staying up there tonight. Two days of married is as much as we are used to. He’ll be back and forward to Gotham a bit over the summer, but he’s mostly home. It’s wonderful – commuting has been a gentle  introduction to married life, but I suppose we have to move in together at some point. At the very least, it’ll be good blog material, no?

I got home on Sunday night, and drove the hour-and-a-wee-bit down to Mammy, then fell dribblingly asleep for quite some time. The presentation went well, apart from a random question about free radicals (there is nothing about free radicals in my research, and all I know about them has been gleaned from face-cream advertisements scientific research into ageing in glossy magazines journals). Anyway. I spent an awful lot of money. I got two textbooks and was swithering about a journal subscription. We haggled a bit and I signed up for the journal, and he gave me another textbook for free! Value $210!  US$! Oh, it’s so exciting!*

So now I’m home. Mammy’s had her spring-cleaning groove on, and the Sister and I were instructed to book some time off work to clear the attic. I’m currently wondering if I’ll ever again need my first-year Latin exercise book. Although I am of a mind to keep it for blue days, when I could look back and see that I was, once, albeit briefly, a 9/10.

Between that and sleeping in, I haven’t yet got round to sorting out my *spooky riff* Logbook. We have to keep a log of all the operations we’re involved in, and I use an online version through the surgical college wot I belong to. It has to be produced on Friday for the annual progress interview. (Head of School alert! Dean alert! Shit!!!) Mine is currently a leetle behind. I was so good until, oh, November….

I really must go and do the logbook.

* Yes, I am being sarcastic. I have enough insight to realise that it’s exceptionally sad to get excited about textbooks. But any new book is exciting to me.

I’m at the conference, and it’s terribly stimulating, but only in parts. There are some really interesting, well-done papers, and then there are the ones where you know some poor underling was hanging on a retractor in theatre, and the boss said, “Now, do you know such-and-such?” Then they’ve said, “I think that’d be a great paper. You should find out such-and-such, and write it up.” And because this sounds like a suggestion, but is, in fact, an order, poor underling has spent laborious months working on some, how shall I say this? Utter shite. But that’s the way it goes.
Speaking of going, I must. There’s another bloody social thing on tonight, and I’m a little tired of making smalltalk. Must go and put on some lip-tick. Au reservoir.

Had a lovely day off yesterday. Had to abandon my sightseeing plans after a spa session that left me rubbery-legged and deliciously snoozy. Sat in the sun instead, with a book. Hotel people seem to think I am a little odd. But the young barman did his darned best to chat me up, until he realised that a teetotaller was unlikely to improve his takings much. So he transferred his attentions to the two girls from Calgary, who had arrived in dangerous form after falling out with their boyfriends. I was then involved in the speculations between him and the restaurant manager, in the role of Senior Female. It was all quite fun.

Did my bestest to get a small change in skin pigmentation yesterday. Batman and I recently had a lovely weekend in Bath, and when I was muttering I’d caught the sun, he said, “Good! It’s been like hanging out with Emily Brontë!” I think he was a leetle tired of all the Jane Austen business. I, of course, was in raptures.

Speaking of which, as part of my nice day off, I got my camera out again. I’ve missed this.

I’m currently Really Quite Far Away, to go to a conference. It starts on Wednesday, and I have a slightly questionable paper to present on Saturday. (Questionable as it contains some extra work done by my successor, and so I am apparently to talk about Western Blots, about which I know nothing. Fortunately, there are multiple, gaily-coloured graphs and that may distract the slavering beasts lovely people.

I had a rotten run at work, and was on call on Thursday night. It’s a rule that, the more you need the night to go peacefully, the worse it is. There’s also a rule about not buying any reading material on call, bringing any work or studying to do, and never, ever saying the “Q” word. Predictably, it was an appallingly busy night. I got home at 01.00am, packed until 02.20am, got into bed until 03.00am and then up and out until 04.40am. Two hours’ sleep, then a full day’s work. And the last patient of the day was almost an hour late. Typical. Went to Gotham on Friday night, to spend some little time with the lovely Batman, then onwards on Saturday.

It was a slightly bad sign that there was an announcement as I was boarding that if there was a doctor on board, would they please come to the rear galley. Being an all-round public spirited type (who never learns), I set my bag down on 27H beside a random fat man, and continued to the back. A young man wasn’t feeling too good – I think a combination of tiredness, stomach upset and a very strong travel-sickness pill on already dodgy innards. He didn’t look up to the flight, anyway, and the rather overwhelmingly scary thing is that as soon as I said this, it was unquestioningly followed. Paramedics, the captain, the ambulance…to be fair, he had to be half-carried off the plane and I’m sure it was the right thing to do, but delaying a transatlantic flight for over an hour on my say-so must rank as one of the more nerve-wracking things I’ve done. Cue embarrassing amounts of gratitude, seeing as I really was only doing what I am morally and ethically obliged to do. “Where are you sitting?” asked the Chief Crew Lady. “Let’s get your things, as we have a seat for you in Business Class.” Now, believe it or not, I did truly attempt a protest, but when she said, “No, I won’t hear of it and the Captain has instructed that you move,” well…

Nine-and-a-half hours on a flat-bed seat, meals from china plates and one of those fancy TV things – oh, life was very good. Very good indeed. I’ll leave you with my husband’s response: “You jammy get!!”

The astute among you may have read between the lines, and realised that the main problem causing such shocking ranting was that my boring sensible shoes had been pinching my feets all of yesterday afternoon. I apologise for such dreadful behaviour, and will never do it again. At least, not until after my next weekend on call.
After that most therapeutic of barging sessions, I was all wobbly and spent, as if I’d been shouting at a traffic warden. My eating habits are reprehensible at the best of times, and when I’ve been on call and have no willpower left, they are shamelessly filthy. I knew there was a big bag of marshmallows in the house, and I went in search of them. On questioning, however, the sister admitted, “I might have eaten them.” I was so desperate for a hit that I foraged until I found the cooking chocolate, and retired to bed with a square of it and a stiff drink. I’m sorry.*
The stiff drink, by the way, was Horlicks. The sleep-inducing power of Horlicks is so extreme that two sips in the kitchen has me buckling at the knees. I have to get upstairs and into bed before drinking it, lest I collapse in a heap on the stairs and never make it to bed.
Speaking of which…I always feel worse the next night after a rotten call. I’m away to bed.

* But I can’t be the only person who’s resorted to cooking chocolate in time of need.

Not you, the Dear Readers, of course not. Just everyone else in the world. And I mean everyone (except The Mammy, who doesn’t read blogs, but is learning the joys of Hindernet shop-browsing). I was on call this weekend: 8am Saturday until 9am today, then a full day of work today. I hate people.

Reasons That I Hate People:

1. They are stupid. Would you ignore your child long enough for it to play with Combustible Liquid and a lighter? Or maybe teeter, unsteadily, on a fence, whilst using electric hedgecutters? This when you have already cut a lump off yourself doing exactly the same thing? It’s depressing. This one time, at Band Camp in Casualty, I saw a guy who’d been mowing the lawn in his bare feet. Seriously. Another time, my colleague walked into the ward to see a woman with a cigarette poked through the round hole in the oxygen mask, thumb poised to click the lighter. I could go on, if you like. My conclusions are: (a) people should have to get a permit to reproduce and (b) some people are just too stupid to live.
2. They are liars. It’s got to the point where I just assume, right off, that everyone is telling me lies. “I was walking down the street at 3am, reading my Bible, and someone jumped out and stabbed me!” “Doctor, it was mistaken identity.” “I have no idea how that got there!” No, there is a glass up your ass because you put it there. I don’t give a shit why or what for, and I don’t care how hard you fell, that’s not how it happened. I swear this is true: someone came into the hospital once with a whiskey tumbler in their Bee Hind. As they were being whisked off (sorry) for emergency surgery to extract it, the wife drew the surgeon aside and asked if they could give it back…as it was part of a set. If there’s anything worse than a liar, it’s a dirty liar. These people could be your friends. You might be visiting them tonight. Bring your own cup (is that why it’s a rule at Women’s Institute meetings? Argh!).  My conclusions: I have difficuly with normal social interactions, because I have to remind myself that my family members are not liars.
3. They are always f*&^ing complaining. It is not my fault that it is sore, it is because you got drunk and you threw a punch and you hurt your stupid, lying hand. Did I give you that rash? Exactly why is it my fault that you weigh more than 170kg (but that’s as high as the scales go), and we’ll have to send the houseman to soap you up in order to get you into the CT scanner: did I force-feed you? I am sorry that the clinic was running 90 minutes behind today. There were about 95 patients to see, there weren’t enough clinic rooms and so we weren’t hanging around chatting, we had nowhere to put you, unless you want to take off your clothes in the waiting room. I am genuinely sorry you had to wait, but I have been working for 53 hours now, and will not have any lunch, will have to drive across town like a maniac for another clinic this afternoon and go through the whole damned thing again. By the  time I get home, I’ll be literally shaking from hypoglycaemia and will have to eat a meringue nest to get in enough sugar to prevent me from passing out. I’m serious. My conclusions: damn them all to Hell. Except the old boys. I’ve got a soft spot for them.
4. Women don’t like women. I called a girl in today, at clinic. She was quite a bit younger than me, and had been operated on by one of the consultants, Mr X. I love Mr X. He’s kind. funny, smart and has been enormously supportive of me when I have been having surgical angst. His patient looked down her orange-foundationed nose at me, curled her lip and walked as slowly as she possibly could into the clinic room, to show her dissatisfaction. She wouldn’t even sit down, just stood and looked sneeringly, and said, “Am I not here to see Mr X?” “Why yes, of course you are,” I said. And then I couldn’t hold it in any more. “Don’t panic!” I snarled, “I’ll just get him for you.” What she didn’t know is that he’d already asked me to call him when I got her into a room, and so she didn’t have to be so snippy. Just because I have boring hair, and boring middle-aged clothes, and boring low-but-functional heels, doesn’t mean that I am some piece of dirt you found on the sole of your oh-so-hip pink shoes. Anyway, yours are too flat and I hope you get fallen arches. My conclusions: Bah.
5. Even colleagues sometimes annoy. I’d better not talk about this one, just in case.

Anyway. It was a relentlessly busy weekend. I did get to bed both nights, but I’m absolutely whacked and I am going to potter for a bit and go to bed. Poor darling Batman was home, but he said that any time he saw me, I was sleeping. Not quite true, as we went to the cinema on Friday night, and I endeavoured to stay awake for the whole of Angels and Demons. Not bad, but not nearly as good as Star Trek, wot we saw the previous weekend. Ab. So. Loo. Tee. Lee. Fantastique. Especially Bones. For your viewing pleasure:

(I don’t hate Bones.)

I must admit to being somewhat gratified to receive a telephone call from Over There:
“Oh good, you’re not dead! I only just read your blog, and you had the rash, and then you disappeared.”
It’s nice to be missed. I once did an online test, that reported that I had a very high chance of going to Hell, but also that I would die alone and be eaten by cats. I am resolute: no cats in this house.
I have been working, working, working. Or idling. Or running around the country at weekends. Last weekend, though, I went to Gotham. Lovely sunshine, and a bit of downtime.
Work contines, unabated. Was shouted at today for not knowing what the tarsal plate is made of – it’s a very useful structure that stops one’s eyeball dropping out and rolling across the floor. “Cartilage?” I pondered.  “No!” roared il capo di tutti capi, the Grand High King of All My World, the man who has more influence on my future happiness than most anyone else. “Why would there be cartilage in your eyelid?”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, humbly. “I had a brain fart.”

(Note: not the thing to say. But anyway. I’ve always said stoopid things when under pressure.) (And it wasn’t a brain fart. I just didn’t know the answer. Sunshine? Marshmallows? Baby poop? Could have been made of anything.)

“Indeed you did. It is a fibroglandular structure.”

Well, that’s nice. I am going to bed, to lie awake half the night and bemoan my (a) stupidity and (b) lack of studying. I am a bit of a funny mood. I read Direct Red last night, the sort-of-memoir of a female ENT surgeon. Meh. Immature. Superficial. Waste of £11.99 and three hours of my life. But then, maybe it’s just jealousy, because I’d give my left kidney to walk into Waterstone’s and see my name on the shelf. One day. One day.

So I’m at the airport, delayed by over an hour. My dinner will be in the dog by the time I get to Gotham. I’ve just spent £1.90 on some pretty deplorable coffee – I gave it up for Lent last year, but when I suggested it this time, Batman put his boot down and absolutely forbade it. Anyone would think I was a grumpy bitch.
In other news, as I’ve been utterly underwhelmed by solicitous messages re. the rash, gee, thanks. You three are all I have to depend on. Anyway. Rash has gone, joint pains are a bit better, but now there’s quite the tender lump on my left wrist. I’m beginning to think I might need to see a proper doctor.
In other annoyances, I’m on the 7.50-delayed-to-9pm flight, which has yet to materialise. The actually-supposed-to-be-9pm flight is now boarding. Am I being stoopid, or could we not all have gone together? There aren’t that many people on it. Sigh. 

Monday: Entertained you with the rash.

Tuesday: Persisted with the rash, and also developed alarmingly severe joint pains. I regret to admit that Batman is probably right, it is a virus. But for Rather Not Say (But I Know Who You Are), a short Poem:

Syphilis

I have just contracted syphilis

It started with a single kiss

And now it’s very hard to piss.

There is a tune to go along with that, but I can’t remember it. Feel free to improvise.

Also on Tuesday: Batman home for some work. Very pleasant to see husband mid-week. Made very nice dinner, if I do say so myself. Have added third dinner to repertoire.Wedding invitation arrived from Elsewhere, from my favourite LadySurgeon in the whole entire world, the one I totally hero-worship. Wedding on 16th May. Am hoping…

Wednesday: Went to clinic, same cancelled as boss at conference. Came home, took Batman to airport, went back to work and poked some patients, then flaked across town to conference. Most interesting. Met very fine friend from the old days Elsewhere, now home and working not that far from Batman. Blagged way into most salubrious conference drinks reception at Big House on Hill, under assumed name. Didn’t have ticket, so had to pretend to be Jill Somebody. Gathered small party and went for fishy dinner. Very good. Took friend home and everybody lapsed into unconsciousness. Wrists and knees very sore.

Thursday: got up early, took two different kinds of painkillers and went to work. Very good all-day theatre list, even got to do a bit, and boss in rather good form. Came home and made Ikear cupboard, now half-filled with junk. Popped back to work to see patient, discovered that SHO cannot follow simple instructions:

Keep urine output > 40ml/hr.

Urine output for last three hours:

10ml, 9ml, 3ml. Patient not very fabulous. Reg on call saw patient about 50 minutes before me, and has done the obvious  thing and turned the drip up a bit. Output already 75ml. SHO chastised. Patient improves. Go home and check in online for tomorrow’s flight to Gotham. Looking forward to nice weekend.

G’night.