We’re in semi-darkness here at Wayne Manor. I was in the powder room the other evening, when there was a POP and some of the lights went out. I say some because:

• One of the three bulbs on the upstairs hall light has fused
• The ceiling lights in the bathroom, the boudoir and the sister’s room have gone out
• The junk room glory hole study ceiling light has also conked out
• All of the plugs upstairs are in working order
• Downstairs all fine (so far)

Bats and I investigated the fuses the following evening. Now, je suis ze Queen of Ze Flatpack, and Ikea is my country. Also, I am liking to be tinkering, and have been known to reseat a tap in my time. However, I have a strict No Electricity rule. It didn’t matter, though, as we couldn’t work out a damned thing.

We have very confusing wiring in Wayne Manor.

There’s one big 30A fuse, several trip switches, and no apparent fuse box like in normal houses. It looks as if the electrics have been jerry-rigged in fits and starts by the good Dr Frankenstein, after several heavy nights on the sloe gin. I am seriously thinking it would be easier to move house than to get to the bottom of this.

So we are persevering in the semi-darkness. Not to put too fine a point on it, in case I stab one of you in the twilight, but the powder room is causing a few problems. We’re using one of Ikea’s finest stick-up battery lights, which doesn’t stick up any more, and only just produces enough light to stop one from peeing on the floor, or on one’s feet. (And yes, it has happened to me at work. It’s so much more revolting when it’s someone else’s pee.) I am in the happy exhibitionist position of not shutting the door at all, whereas Bats and the sister are not enjoying themselves one little bit. I will say this, there’s a lot less clocking in the toilet, presumably ’cause no-one can see their newspaper in there any more. However, the longterm problem of how exactly three people get through quite so much toilet roll is getting worse: now the toothpaste is vanishing. I swear, someone is eating it, and the toilet roll. Mmm. Tasty.

In fact, what a thoroughly nice day I’ve had. Instead of an 8am screech around the ward, I had a lie-in and then hopped on the bus at 9.45am. Fifteen minutes later, I was exercising my mind and my schmoozing gland at a conference for people who’d like to develop an interest in academic medicine. I met my lovely supervising Professor, who inherited me when I came back from Elsewhere.

“Hello, Blade!” he said, shaking hands. ”Hello, Professor!” I exclaimed, for I really was very happy to see him. “Blade,” he said, shaking his extremely knowledgeable head, “Do call me Firstname.” “Ah, Prof, you know I can’t. I’m from a generation where no senior person has a first name – and that includes my aunts and uncles.”

So I had a jolly lovely day, and feel like I am on the cusp of some important decision-making. I don’t just want to be a surgeon, excellent though it is – I’d love to add an academic component, and I am feeling much more inspired to try. We’ll see.

In home life, I had to make some buns tonight. Now, both Bats and the sister were in the house. I was in the kitchen, battering 8 ounces of digestive biscuits into sawdust with a rolling pin. Did anyone come to see if there was an intruder in the house, doing nefarious deeds? Of course not. It is time I got a good barky dog.

It’s been a shite day. All sorts of bad news within our department: bad exams, bad job interviews, bad things afoot among the patients. Bah. And now all the upstairs lights have gone out, I suspect the fuse is to blame, but am too cross to attempt changing it at this time of night. My mojo has gone bleurgh.

The only positive news is that we went shopping for fabric for my Matron of Honour Best Woman Dress (MOH sounds ghastly, I think), and got some rather lovely stuff. In the negative, it’s taking miles of the stuff to cover me, in fact, as much as it would take to upholster a three-piece suite. The healthy eating plan has failed. I am a fat lump.

Bah.

Spending lots of time helping the sister with her wedding arrangements, and thanking my lucky stars that I’m not her. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my wedding and the fella wasn’t bad either, but the arrange-ings were beyond tedious. We’ve printed invitations all day today, with reasonable success, and so all is right with the world. Except that I don’t know how I’ll do without her as a housemate.

Have just set the alarm for 08.35am. That’s two hours later than usual. Oh, joy.
I am really very tired.

The medical students are getting worse. My boss had an attack of the Red Mist, and had to take himself out of theatre on Monday, because the Final Years couldn’t answer a question. Unreasonable? No…what pushed him over the edge was when Work Experience Girl (age: c. 17) was able to answer instead. Crikey.

I was wittering in theatre to the SHO, to the effect that I was a bit Ford Prefect-ish in my inability to recognise sarcasm unless I was concentrating hard. He had an expression of blankness, or perhaps he was smelling something.
“You don’t know who Ford Prefect is, do you?” I said.
“Nope,” was the answer – and this is the bright SHO.
“Hitch hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy? Radio show? Book? Even recently, a filum? No?”
“Nope.”

Hmm.

I’m at the bloody rota again. Oh, how I wish people would stop taking holidays (except for me, of course). Speaking of which, my boss is off, so I’ve been having exciting times.

Here’s what I’ve recently removed from unsuspecting members of the public:

• Freckles x 3
• Pimples x 2
• Manky spiky bits of fingernail x 1

A while ago, I was asked to talk to the medical students’ surgical society about growing up to be a surgeon. I told them it was brill. Well, what are you to say? It’s brill in parts, and dead boring in parts, and you spend a lot of time massaging other people’s egos, wow goo. You get a laugh every day. Everyone lies, House is right. The pay is good but the hours are still a bit uncertain, as are the chances of future employment. Anyway, there were fifty or thereabouts at the talk, and now I’ve been asked to speak to a bigger group (about 120) on a particular aspect of my particular thang. Hmm. Many people. I’m distinctly remedial when it comes to teaching, and I waggle my hands around too much.

On the plus side, I do have some super-minging photos to show. It would be a shame to waste them?

There are a number of good points about being married to a superhero:

1. He has just washed my car.

2. He has also just changed a light bulb (after asking him every day for a week). (Yes, I know I can change a light bulb by myself, but it’s one of the footery wee awkward ones in the hall and I couldn’t be annoyed with the performance it takes to change it. Very expensive mistake, those lights.)

3. He has to have a cover story, a job so that folks don’t suspect his true identity. His cover story involves a week off work, so in the interests of marital harmony (and my lazy butt), I joined in celebrating half term. Gosh, it’s brilliant.

Q: So, what did I do with my week (and a bit extra) off work?

A: Almost flipping nothing. Well, the Mammy celebrated her 70th birthday, with a grand tour of almost every shop in the country that sells mother of the bride outfits. I swear, I drove 400 miles in three days. The sister’s wedding approacheth. We remain unsuccessful in our quest. Hmm. Mammy is Hard to Fit. Dress Shop Women are scary.

I made birthday cake for Mammy, and soup for us, and pancakes, twice,  for 1. Batman’s visiting nephew from Ingerland and 2. Shrove Tuesday . I had a first attempt at both risotto and bread pudding  - surprisingly good, given my negligible culinary skills. I puttered around, and braved the butcher’s again – and this time I got him to mince some steak for me. How brave am I?  I watched a lot of My Name is Earl, and  reclined in bed a good bit, and finished reading Geoff Hill’s jolly darned funny book Way to Go. (How can you resist a book by a man who wrote The Road to Gobblers Knob?)

I had one very important plan, one job that Must Be Accomplished. Predictably for such a procrastinating toad, I didn’t go near it until tonight. At 6pm, after 10 days off, and with 14 hours of holiday left, I began to tidy my desk. I am a lazy so-and-so. And already there is a hiatus: for I am blogging. The desk is cleared, and that means six(!) four-inch-high piles of papers and dusty junk are sitting on the bed. I am going for the navigable river tactic, clear the lot and then weed out what’s allowed back onto the desk.  I am a lazy so-and-so.

I also had a birthday, which was happy. It was very quiet, and involved chicken korma, and I had a lovely time.

Back to the desk. Argh.

This being the first Wednesday in February, most junior doctors change jobs, so we have four new SHOs. I know, I know, I was one once, etc.. How true. They’re all so very young. It troubles me. One could so easily be labelled a cougar for harassing the young men. OK, yes, I know, I wish. We heard we were getting four chaps, so I was a little surprised to find one wearing a dress. But it was all right, she was a girl. I said, “Oh, you’re not a man!” and she said that I was the third person to tell her that. I think she was having a trying morning.

Not as bad as another young person, of Batman’s acquaintance. Bats tells me that this young person developed Tourette’s this morning, when he found out he was going to get a vaccination. I believe it was rather fluent.

I have just written an angry email to a shop in town, because I went in 15 minutes before closing time, said hello to the doll and she looked at me, then blanked me in favour of some callow lad she was chatting up. That’s not so abnormal, but then she turned the lights out on me when I walked to the back of the shop to look at something. Cheeky tart. Boy, is she going to be sorry in the morning. I am much more eloquently furious when I’m sleepy.

* It was 2am when I got to bed.