Being Thorough in All Things; 101 Uses for NHS Forms

I have the deepest, deepest respect for the National Health Service, particularly as in about fifteen days’ time an amazingly capable and fantastically proficient NHS surgeon is going to drill a tiny, tiny hole into my leg and fix a lumpy-bumpy just above my dear little tummy button. Obviously, it would be preferable if doctors could bring themselves to use adult terms like keyhole surgery, navel and hernia, but they seem to find this kind of inane baby talk strangely comforting. Perhaps it helps them forget the gory butchery of the operating theatre.

I won’t bore you with the technicalities. Suffice it to say that the operation is immensely complicated, very hi-tech and – to use an unfortunate phrase – absolutely cutting edge. As far as can be gathered, it involves a miniaturized submarine crewed by a team of especially athletic and photogenic medical mariners. They nip in through the hole in my leg, travel up my thigh, navigate through the dark and stormy horrors of my pubic region and finally surface just above my diaphragm. There is then a spot of technical wizardry with lasers, photon torpedoes and a largish bit of sticking plaster. As long as that perfidious scumbag, Donald Pleasence, is kept out of the picture, I should survive.

Aside from the very, very slight possibility of dying young(ish), the only trouble with having an NHS operation is that one spends an unconscionably long time hanging about in garish neon-lit waiting rooms filling in forms. For most people, this doesn’t seem to be a problem; they scribble away for a few minutes then returns to the dubious delights of battered copies of Badger Hunting Life or Caravan Owing Fly Fishers’ Monthly. For those of a more ruminative literary-philosophical bent, the forms, coupled with the excessive amount of time one has on one’s hands to complete them, present something of a challenge and – let's admit it – an irresistible temptation.

It is with third question that I first stumble. Ethnicity? I scribble “Mainly Jewish” then pause for thought. I would willingly lay down my life for Israel and hate to admit this but, despite my mother’s laudably sentimental claims, I might not be technically Jewish. It is true that my grandfather rather looked the part but he had a brother called Rollo and did give my mother and uncles exceedingly odd names for putative Semites in the 1920’s (Clare, Eric & Frederic). I make the first modification to my answer: “Possibly part Jewish – maybe of Viking extraction”.

Then, there is the ethnicity my father’s side. His mother went by the name of Morfee (there was an accent in there somewhere) and, despite being a fervent Catholic, she claimed to be of Huguenot descent. However, I strongly suspect that she was really called Murphy and was of entirely Irish extraction.

There is more ethnic certainty on my paternal grandfather’s side. They came from North Devon and were smugglers, wreckers and utter bastards. One had been hung, drawn & quartered for following the family business; another, the infamous and deeply cretinous Edward Squire, suffered the same fate for attempting to poison Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth I via their rectums. Doubtless I should fill you in on the Tale of the Notoriously Inept Bottom Poisoner, but I digress.

I finally decide that my ethnicity is “Possibly part Jewish – maybe of Viking extraction with pseudo- Huguenot probably Celtic undertones”. I support this with copious marginalia explaining that I might also have Iberian blood on account of much of the Armada being wrecked off the Irish coast and that I have always felt very Roman (Note: when I tell the receptionist that I think I might be the reincarnation of Nero and ask if this could have some bearing on my ethnicity, she gazes at me with an expression that is several degrees colder than friendly). I decide against mentioning the Celtic-Phoenician theory as this is, after all, merely an NHS questionnaire and no place for excessive prolixity.

Ethnicity out of the way, I move on to religion. This is not quite as tricky as one might think. I shove in “Lapsed Satanist; now wavering between non-Ontological Theism & Humanism” and put in a footnote (cf. Martin Buber and the later Wittgenstein). In fact, by this point there are so many annotations and footnotes on the forms that I have to ask the quite surly receptionist for a continuation sheet.

There are a few tricky questions. For instance, I wasn’t sure if snuff should be classed as a ‘recreational drug’. The receptionist wasn’t especially helpful when asked. First, she tried to ignore me and when I persisted said in an offhand manner “I have never really considered the matter”. I started to get the impression that she somehow found it in her heart to dislike me.

The minutes pass cheerfully and productively. I finally reach the penultimate question: “Is there any possibility that you might be pregnant?” Disdaining the paltry little tick boxes, I scrawl “Every possibility” then thinking this a mite brusque I add “Consider the power of the Paraclete”. A moment’s consideration has me worrying that they might think I am some kind of religious nut so I beg another sheet of paper from the exceptionally bad tempered receptionist. I pen a few paragraphs explaining why, as a middle aged man, I’d be more than moderately surprised if I were pregnant but that I couldn’t entirely discount the possibility. As a preamble, I discuss the possibility of surreptitious divine or extra-terrestrial surgical intervention. I then move on to the distinction between belief and knowledge. I conclude by presenting what I trust is a lively rehearsal of Cartesian scepticism and epistemology.

The questionnaire complete, I proudly hand it to the by now furious-looking receptionist remarking that she has really got her money’s worth this time. “You do realise that someone is going to have to type this lot into the computer” is her ungrateful response. I express the hope that she will find it illuminating and return to my book, the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignatius of Loyola.

A Touch of the Outré

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

I’ve just been giving some advice on what I call the psychoimagistics of ‘business chic’. Despite the credit crunch, this involves far more than being well groomed and smartly dressed. It also involves carrying certain talismanic objects and carefully deploying them at meetings. The magical objects can include:

• A leather portfolio
• A luxury pen
• A voice recorder
• A tablet PC
• A BlackBerry or other smart, email-enabled business phone
• A Moleskine, Red & Black or similar upmarket notebook

Of course, it is essential that you interact smoothly and professionally with the objects. There must be no fumbling with the laptop’s controls or finding your Mont Blanc is out of ink or the recorder out of batteries. In this as in so many other areas of life, one must strive for graceful elegance and eschew clumsy cackhandedness.

You are not simply marking out your territory and seizing control of part of the meeting space; nor are you just displaying symbols of your success, although this is important and, hence, the need for luxury items; you are showing your mastery of the world of business. The idea is to imply techno-efficiency and that you are wired into the Zeitgeist.

Thus far so good, but you need to go a step further. You also need to transcend the talismans and to display a certain disdainful aloofness from mere business gadgetry and processes. In psychodynamic or - as I prefer - psychoimagistic terms, you need one distinctive mark of personality or even of mild eccentricity – a tiny touch of the outré.

This touch is a restrained and subtle gesture towards a subversion of the talismanic world, or microcosm, you have yourself generated. The touch can be a carefully cultivated insouciance but more generally will be a negatively charged talisman. We are not talking vulgarity here. No comical socks, cartoon ties or – heaven forbid – tattoos. An elegant silk bow tie or expensive pocket watch might suffice for a man; a slightly over-the-top pair of glasses for a woman. Another option might be to ‘accidently’ display a magazine or book on some slightly recherché subject.

For some unfathomable reason, my sister had an uncontrollable fit of the giggles at this point. Reflecting bitterly that a prophet is rarely revered in his own country, I took a thoughtful snort of snuff, dusted the spillage from my well-worn yet chic combat vest and gathered my coffee besmirched index cards. I wonder if I should offer up-market courses in business deportment & style. I might follow in the steps of such luminaries as Professor Cosmo Saltana and Dr Owen Tuby. My time might finally have come!

The Thing that Slavered in the Night

I

It is 1.30 AM on Sunday morning. The young policeman approaching Angel Lane notices a bright light coming from the garden of the house at the corner. He strolls over to investigate. It has been an easy but long shift and he is doubtless looking forward to a cup of tea at the station; he is not prepared for the Boschean scene that is to shortly confront him. How could he be? Demonology is not currently on the curriculum at Hendon Police College.

The garden shows every trace of a savage mortal struggle. Pots and chairs are upturned; soil and garbage are strewn everywhere. The policeman glances down and just behind the wall sees a grotesque vision straight from the deepest pit of medieval hell: a monstrous squat toad-like form is frenziedly fighting with a large black shape. The shape appears inert – perhaps it has been subdued and is being consumed by the foul slavering toad. A lurid bluish light is blazing from the malevolent creature’s mouth. Its eyes are wild and the flesh on its forelegs a livid reptilian white.

As his eyes adjust to the crepuscular light, the policeman notices that the thing’s head is crowned with a mane of unkempt dishevelled hair. With a gasp of sheer horror he realizes that it may once have been human.

II

Late the previous evening, there had been an almighty rumpus outside my house. Things were being chucked about, somebody or some thing was snorting loudly and – most alarming of all – there was a weird scraping noise as though a knife were being sharpened on the patio. Screaming bellicose war cries and armed with a large bacon knuckle (handy weapon plus welcome source of sustenance in the event of a protracted struggle), I shot out of the house to confront the intruder, which turned out to be a large and extremely surprised badger. The badger fled & I contemplated my wrecked garden.

An hour or so later, I was outside the house again stuffing the detritus wildly into a huge black plastic waste bag. Suspecting badgers to be carriers of a whole host of foul diseases and to have absolutely lethal saliva – to my mind they were the mammalian equivalents of komodo dragons – I was suitably clad. Aside from my habitual and exceedingly tasteful green combat vest, I was wearing a pair of latex surgical gloves and griping a high-powered torch between my teeth. As there was little chance the badger would return, I had consumed the bacon washing it down with a litre or so of claret. After all, I had a hard dirty job to do.

“Good evening, Sir” said an authoritative if nervous voice just above my head.

III

I gaze up at the tall uniformed figure above me. Unwilling at first to relinquish the torch gripped in my teeth, I gargle “harrow” back. My voice sounds somewhat like that of a Tellituby. Dimly aware that the situation might look a trifle suspicious and that the policeman appears strangely agitated, I remove the torch and provide a more compendious albeit slurred explanation: “Buggery badger”.

“I see”, says the policeman, very, very slowly. He steps backwards doubtless wondering whether to draw his truncheon or whether the wiser course would be to summon armed assistance. We gaze at each other for a while. There is a pregnant pause.

IV

The policeman eventually continued his journey to the police station but not without a number of deeply suspicious backward glances. Deciding that my repairs to the garden would suffice, I retired inside to finish the wine. It had been a somewhat unusual but not entirely unsatisfying evening.

In Praise of Hackwork

It is all very well trying to maintain standards, but as life gets increasingly busy, it is difficult to find the couple of hours needed to produce a polished blog. The trouble is that there are things that need to be said, moans that need to be voiced and whimsies that must be aired.

So it’s farewell Emily Dickinson and away with the two inches of ivory. Hello digital Grub Street.