Death of a Toaster

Last night, I was toasting some bread when there was a loud bang, a flash of bright light, and all the sockets went down. After a moment's stunned silence, I unplugged the toaster and re-set the circuit board. Nothing extraordinary there, I'm sure. But this toaster was extraordinary, and I mourn it's passing.

To explain why, I must give you a little bit of history. I was a medical student in Malta in 1977, when a medico-political dispute broke out that led to the closure of the medical school. I was, at the time, just about to start the fourth year of training. Locked out of the medical school, we were all desperate to continue our training. The Commonwealth desk at the British Medical Association was wonderful. Over the next two months, they found places for all of us who wished to continue training at British medical schools. Which is why, one sunny day in early September, I and others from my course were sitting nervously on a British Airways aircraft waiting to take off from Malta.

I landed in London that day with a large suitcase, a teddy bear, a radio cassette player and nowhere to sleep that night. I also had a terrible cold. I have felt better. Fortunately, I was able to make contact with a friend who arrived to rescue me and take me home to his parents for two days. They were very kind, but soon I had to fend for myself.

A room was found at the hall of residence of the medical school in London to which I had been assigned, and I started to settle in. And the first things I decided I needed were a kettle and a toaster. The kettle has long since bitten the dust, but the toaster has accompanied me everywhere ever since. For 35 years it has moved from student accommodation, to junior doctors' quarters, and eventually to my own home and through four further moves. It was showing it's age, and was distinctly un-modern, but it worked and I was fond of it. It reminded me of the evenings when I would bring the bread and the butter in from the window sill for two slices of toast before setting off for the hour's walk to the Albert Hall for the Proms; it recalled evening with friends when we ate beans on toast and drank cheap red wine; it had seen me through illness, and Glyndebourne breakfasts with chums. It was a part of my life.

So, I shall now buy a new toaster, but I am not quite sure that I am going to have the heart to throw the old one away.

Another Molly Story

Last Friday, I had to be in London (again!).  I waved goodbye to Molly at 0730 and set off blearily for the station. Gosh it was cold. Near Luton, there was even snow. And London was perishing, with that wind that goes right through you no matter how many layers you have on.

Now, Friday is my standard Ocado delivery day. They deliver between 6 and 7. I had failed to take this into account when booking my return train, with the result that we pulled into the station at 1759. This would not normally have been a problem, since I would have telephoned Ocado, explained, and promised to be there in five minutes. However, my phone had died - and no, it wasn't from lack of juice, it's EE's fault, but that's another story. Praying that Ocado would be late, I jumped into a taxi and we raced for home. Imagine my relief when I arrived to find the van at the door and the delivery man about to reload all my shopping. I grovelled, he was charming, and we headed into the flats together.

So what has Molly got to do with all this? I hear you ask. I opened the door and the man and I entered together. Molly was furious. She was not amused at me turning up with somebody else and therefore not being able to give her my immediate, undivided attention. By the time he left, probably no more than three minutes later, she was in a high strop and refusing to talk to me or take any notice of me. She did not calm down for almost an hour.

Now, that's a real prima donna!

Molly Cat is Having a Bad Day

This morning, I had to be on an early train to London. Molly Cat is never happy when I am rushed in the morning, because I don't have time to give her much attention. On top of that, I had had some friends round last night, and she is a VERY jealous cat. For the last week she has been in a very funny mood: prickly and scratchy and refusing to eat any of the wet food. She was also a little off colour early yesterday evening (before the guests arrived) and I think she may have a hair ball.

All this background is to explain why, when this evening I arrived home to a loving Molly, who purred like a train every time I stroked her and who kept very close to me as I went about the business of changing etc., I was very pleasantly surprised. We had a cuddle, then I decided I really must get on with changing from work clothes to home 'Friday evening slouch' clothes.

This is when things started to go wrong. I moved to what is loosely termed the dressing room: there is, of course, no space to dress and barely space to open the cupboards since, like virtually every other available space, I have had it covered in book shelves. (Aside: why is there NEVER enough book space, no matter how many shelves you put up?). However, there is a closet, which I duly opened to get out one of my more reprehensible pullovers. As I was taking it down from the hanger, I took an incautious step backwards. I had forgotten that my tool box had migrated to just behind me. And sadly, I had not noticed that Molly was standing immediately behind me, tight up against the toolbox.

I think I must really have hurt her. She took off like greased lightening and, for the first time in months, hid under my desk. It took me half an hour to coax her out, and another half hour before she agreed to play with her favourite toy.

Eventually, however, she was cheerfully chasing the feathered object at the end of the pole and I was happy. Until I stupidly waved it too close to her water fountain. Chasing it, she landed four square in the water fountain, spraying water everywhere and giving herself a great fright. I compounded my crimes by laughing. She is now sulkily sitting in her hammock over the radiator.

I'm hoping she'll come round tomorrow morning.

How do Single Parents Cope?

I have a lot of godchildren. I normally claim 10, but depending on how you count them, it is anywhere between seven and 16. The differences depend upon whether I was actually at the font, whether there was a font at all or just a request to be a 'special adult' (of various names), and whether the request was slightly retrospective.

My latest godson is 14 months old. He is adorable, bright, full of energy, and totally exhausting - which is all as it should be. I love him dearly and enjoy nothing more than greeting him, his parents, and his baby brother to my place for supper. Such an event happened last Thursday.

There was a confluence of two slightly unfortunate events that evening. On the following day, Friday, I had a very important meeting in London which meant I had to leave home at 07.30. I realise this is normal for most people, but I am not good in the morning. I explained I HAD to be asleep by 10, so they needed to leave by quarter to the hour.

On this evening, however, we had agreed that the Dad would cook a rather special meal. As it turned out, this was slightly more complicated, and took rather longer, than I had bargained for. This resulted in him being engrossed in the cooking for a lot of the evening, leaving Mum and me to look after the children. Two adults; two children under two: surely no problem?

If you are thinking that, you have never tried it. As we swapped babies, we managed to allow Godson to pull a candle to the floor, showering glass everywhere. That took a little time to clear up, and Dad had to be dragged from the cooking to help. An accidental jolt knocked something off the wall. There were tears before bedtime as attempts were made to quieten things. They left far later than I had hoped, and with poor Mum looking miserable and guilty, for which there was no need.

So, how did I fare? Naturally, I was fine. I slept like a log (who invented the 'slept like a baby' rubbish?), awoke refreshed, made my train with masses of time to spare, and had a really good day in London. However, on the train back I was reflecting: how do single parents cope? And what should we be doing to support them more than we do?

My Cat had PMT

Alright, the truth is I don't actually know this, but we certainly had a very uncomfortable week when she bit and scratched and generally behaved in a very bad-tempered way, and now she is better. In fact, she is really cuddly and will even let me pick her up and hold her for many minutes. She had never done that before.

Stopping the biting was, actually, the easy part, with the help of a water pistol. She doesn't like that water pistol. I only have to reach for it and she is off. I have never actually got her with the water, but she knows what it is.

Surprisingly, her apetite also seems to have picked up, and she is sleeping later in the morning. I haven't been woken before 0630 for the last three days.

Does this all sound connected? Do other people's cats behave this way? Do cats get PMT?

My cat is mad

Molly cat has gone mad. Seriously. I don't know what the problem is, but she clearly has intermittent insanity. Let me explain:

This morning, at 0500, I was awoken by a very cross cat. I refused to take any notice. She was incandescent with rage, pupils enormous, biting at me, scratching any bit of me she could reach. I wrapped myself in the duvet and refused to come out. Within minutes, I could hear her racing around the house, bumping into furniture, chasing any shadow that could be seen. She was in and out of the window to the terrace and, when I finally got up, she had clearly been bringing in leaves - the bedroom floor was covered with them.

Two hours later, when I actually woke up, she was fast asleep against my legs, looking as if butter wouldn't melt. She leaned against me when I sat on the edge of the bed, purred and demanded attention. We had a lovely ten minutes before I went through to the kitchen to feed her.

I decided it had been an aberration and forgot about it, but this evening she was again furious, biting at me when I tried to pet her, refusing to come to me. More worrying, she looked at me as if I regularly beat her up (which, I assure you, I don't) and ran away every time I made overtures.

She has also taken to ripping up envelopes. So far, it has been mainly open ones, but today I found her chewing on an unopened envelope!

PLEASE experienced cat people: what is going on and what should I do about it?

PS She is now sitting on the keyboard intermittently, so any typos are hers!

Vancouver is a very long way away

I have been reflecting on this ever since I got back from Vancouver and while I was recovering from the awful journey (a story for another day) and the even more awful jet lag. The bald facts are clear: Vancouver is a nine and a half hour flight away and there is an eight hour time difference. On my way back, I stopped in Montreal for two days, and the Vancouver to Montreal leg was a flight of almost five hours. That amazed me. It means that Montreal is almost the half way point of the distance between London and Vancouver. Nothing until that moment had brought home to me quite how enormous Canada is. Suddenly, having my only immediate family there felt even less enticing than it had before. What when one of us became ill? There was no possibility of a rapid arrival at the bedside and fond support. Selfishly, this matters to me.


However, there are other, perhaps more important, ways that Vancouver is a very long way away. Until I visited, I had not appreciated quite what a young city Vancouver is. I had visited the East coast of Canada before, and was aware of its history, of the many things we shared. I knew that Europeans had colonised it as early as the mid-sixteenth century. I had foolishly expected Vancouver to have developed very soon after this, completely ignoring the vast and impassable terrain in between. In fact, of course, the West coast was not reached by people trekking across Canada, but by sea, and not until the late eighteenth century, more than 200 years later. The colony of British Columbia was much later still, only being founded in 1858, and the City of Vancouver was incorporated in 1886. The reality, therefore, is that Vancouver really is a very new city, with little more than 130 years of existence behind it.


This makes enormous differences to the outlook and attitudes of the people. It has frequently been noted that most north americans are much more outward looking than Europeans; that they lack the innate cynicism that we have developed, and I found this to be true. But there are other things. Vancouver is a far more cosmopolitan city than I had expected, having welcomed waves of incomers over the last 130 years. It is extraordinarily modern, but it relishes every tiny bit of history it can find: any building older than about 60 years is protected and has a plaque attached to it. I went to Mass at the Roman Catholic Cathedral and found it warm and welcoming, not always a trait of European Cathedrals. People seem genuinely nice and friendly.

The other differences are probably more to do with size. People think nothing of going shopping in Seattle - a mere three hours drive away. They will even drive the approximately 40 minutes to the border to buy cheaper petrol in the USA - which seemed to me slightly self-defeating, but I didn't like to enquire too critically. They are also great outdoors people - and I don't mean taking a picnic to a field for a damp afternoon. They are blessed with some of the most glorious scenery in the world all, in relative terms, on their doorstep. Everybody seems to kayak, ski, swim, hike and any number of other sports.

So, am I trying to get myself a visa? Well, no. To be honest, I am too European. I like the scale of Europe, the history, the art, the fact that I can get it all within an hour's flight at most. I like the little streets and the small farms. I like the differences as you cross borders. And I like the fact that there are lots of different shades of green in the forests we have left, not the monochrome of the pines. So I shall stay here. And hope that we all stay well for a long time.

Do Cats Get PMT?

Molly cat is in a very bad mood. She has been scratchy (I use the word advisedly) for the last two days. I suddenly wondered: could she have PMT?

Molly is, of course, 'done': in other words, she has been permanently stopped from having kittens. However, what I do not know is whether ovaries are removed when female cats are neutered. If not, then she is quite possibly pre-menstrual and I might have to learn to live with that in my cat. It seems bizarre, but it is certainly possible. Please, does anybody know?

In the mean time, what do I do about the fact that every time I pet her we start with happy purring and end with nips and scratches? It really is getting too much. All advice gratefully accepted.

A view from Montreal Airport

Hello folks. I'm sorry to have been so hopeless about writing again, but frankly the holiday was lovely and the Conference busy, so there never seemed to be time to write this. Two days ago I left Vancouver for a final two days in Montreal.

Shock 1: the flight was almost five hours!
Shock 2: it is a three hour time difference.

All this should help with the jet lag; I'm almost half way home, right? I met a friend and we went to stay at his cousin's place on a lake outside Montreal. The Lake is memorably called Lac Bob.  Blackadder instantly came to mind.

It was fabulous. The sun shone. The leaves are beginning to turn and the colours were awesome. The wind rippled the surface of the lake. The only sign of other human beings were the curls of smoke from the chimneys of other cabins. You could touch the silence. We meandered to farm shops, bought beef and vegetables and fruit and wine. Returning to the cabin, we cooked on a combination of the cooker and the barbecue. The meat was the best I have ever tasted by quite a long way.

Today, we returned to Montreal, went to an Exhibition about the Samurai and another on the Etruscans, both fascinating, empty, beautifully described. Then my friend dropped me at the airport: at my own request, I was three hours early. We said fond farewells, hoped that we would be able to meet on one side of the pond or the other within the year, waved goodbye.

Things went fairly rapidly downhill after that. The flight was delayed; by 'at least' an hour and a quarter. As I speak, we are still in the lounge. They are now quoting an hour and forty minutes. Our scheduled arrival at Heathrow at 0920 is now being quoted as 1030. I can feel all the benefit from the trip leeching away by the second. We are all tired. It is a tribute to the Canadians that there have been no frayed tempers.

But, do you want to know the worst of it? I was due to pick up Molly Cat before 12.00. This is now not going to happen. I hope Linda lets me pick her up later, but thanks to the time difference, I won't know till I land. I can't bear the thought of the whole weekend without her.

A View from Vancouver

I arrived in Vancouver on Saturday. It is a looooooong way from England - a nine and a half hour flight. I don't like aeroplanes. I don't like long flights. I was stressed, and exhausted. But my brother and his wife were there to meet me and it was lovely to see them. Thanks to the time difference, it was still light, although we had left London at 5p.m.  We walked out of the airport past a tank of jellyfish; why, I asked myself?

Everybody told me how beautifulVancouver is. Frankly, it isn't. So far, it seems to me little different from anywhere else. But the scenery is awesome, wonderful, amazing. Yesterday we went to the Aquarium: I enjoyed it all, but the Belluga whales and the dolphins were a particular pleasure.

Today we went to Deep Cove Bay. It is beautiful. The trees drop down to the water's edge, the sea was calm, like a millpond, the colours are amazing. I have been so lucky with the weather - there has been almost unbroken sunshine.

But for me, the highlight was last night. At about 8, the dog went mad. We peered outside. Walking across the deck was a raccoon. I had never seen one. I was so excited. I am now hoping for something bigger.

Return to the Piano

I have a piano. A rather beautiful, if not very good, piano. I love that piano, but I don't play it very often. For years, I have gone back to it intermittently and have been able to play my favourite old pieces with little trouble and less distinction. It worked, for me at least, and I tried to ensure that I did not disturb anybody else.

This became a far bigger problem when I moved into a flat four years ago. I was horribly conscious that the noise travelled throughout the building and that my not very musical offerings could well be annoying my neighbours. I found myself playing less and less. Recently, however, I returned to it on a rainy, thundery evening, when there was so much noise outside that I felt that it was unlikely I would annoy anybody.

Alas. What I had completely failed to factor in to the equation was the reality of ageing, stiffening fingers. Where before I was able to pick up where I left off, now my fingers refused to cooperate. My brain still knew what to do, but my fingers did not seem able to do the things I was expecting. I was devastated. My immediate response was that I would never play again. Now, some days later, I am taking a different view. I have decided that I shall return to practising, albeit during the day and not for too long.

So, if you live in my building, I apologise for the awful noise to which you might be subjected, but I do not want to abandon all hope yet. If it gets too much for you, come and tell me. I hope it is not too awful.

Why Doesn't the Technology Work?

So, today I was doing a second induction day for our new registrars. Last night, I carefully went through my presentation, added some slides, removed others. I was really quite pleased with it. I ensured it was saved in the Cloud so that I could access it from anywhere - I have learned that encrypted sticks are not happy with Apple and I am not happy with anything else.

This morning was a bit of a nightmare. A couple of important phone calls delayed me. I always cut it fine [waking early is not my strong suit] so the delay meant I was late. I rang through, said I would be there soon. Everything seemed against me - the traffic was terrible. Eventually I arrived. The registrars were kind - they did not complain. I plugged my MacBook Air into the overhead projector. Nothing. The screen remained resolutely blank. I pushed buttons at random: nothing changed. I waggled the wires: nothing changed. I thought calming thoughts: nothing changed. Eventually, I took a deep breath, disconnected everything, and started again. Miraculously, something appeared on the screen. We were in business.

The basic presentation went well, but please can somebody explain to me why, when I tried to project a website, the computer resolutely projected something that was not on my screen at all? I am genuinely interested. Please, what did I do wrong? Why did the technology not work? I really tried. I know I'm a technological idiot, but I didn't think that it was that complicated. PLEASE HELP.

A Very Cross Cat

Last week, I had to leave Molly alone overnight. I did not wish to do so, but it was unavoidable. I was leaving home at 3.30 on Thursday and anticipated returning by about 7 on the Friday, so I left her three separate timed meals in automatic feeders, arranged for my cleaner to pop in on the Friday morning and a friend to check on her on Friday afternoon. Surely, she would be alright?

I returned home at about 7.15. Molly did not meet me at the door. I went looking for her. She was seated on the back of the sofa. I went across, tried to pet her. She snorted and stalked off. I found her favourite toy; she ignored it. I threw away the food and gave her fresh; it was disdained. Now, I had had a very difficult day: we had buried a dear friend who had died at the far too young age of forty. I had had enough. If she was going to ignore me, two could play at that game. I took a glass of wine and a book on to the terrace and settled on the lounger.

Molly soon came out. She stalked around, then tried to climb the enclosing cat netting. The message was clear: I'm getting out of this place. By this time, I was starting to laugh. It was so pointed and silly. By my side, I had a table. Suddenly, Molly jumped up. I thought she had come to make up.  Not a bit of it. She glared at me, her eyes enormous pools of disapproval and anger, walked across to the other side of the table and sat down with her back to me. It was all I could do not to laugh out loud. She did not make friends again until the following morning. Cats! I ask you?!

The Stuck Drawer

Getting ready for work this morning, I left the underwear drawer open a crack while I was pottering about. I was in and out of the bathroom, dressing, applying make-up, as one does. Finally, I decided I had taken everything I needed out of it. I shoved it shut: only it would not shut.

This is an old chest of drawers; the drawers do, sometimes, stick. I gave it another shove, hard this time. Still, it would not shut. I opened it further and reached in, but could find no obstruction. I tried again. This happened two or three times. Finally, I tried to open the drawer underneath, to see if there was something there. It was as I was struggling with the second drawer that I saw the underwear move. Disbelieving, I watched as Molly Cat disentangled herself from the contents of the drawer and slid out. The expression on her face can only be described as withering. I apologised profusely, between laughs, but she was not the least bit pacified. She stalked away and did not return for at least twenty minutes. 

I shall be more careful with that drawer in future.

Molly Cat Comes Home

Yesterday morning, I picked up Molly Cat from the Cattery. To be honest, I had been in text touch with the Cattery owner at least four times during my week in Malta to ensure that Molly was fine. I was assured that she had settled in well, was enjoying her cuddles, and following 'Aunty Linda' around at every opportunity. To say I was jealous would be over-stating the case, but I was bemused - she never did that with me. However, I was also relieved that she seemed happy and wasn't pining.

I arrived to pick her up at about 11 on a lovely sunny morning. Obviously, I had brought the sunshine with me, since the weather had been reportedly atrocious. Linda assured me that Molly had been happy, that she loved being cuddled, that she liked her treats. She sounded like a different cat. When we went to fetch her, she looked less than thrilled to see me. However, we got her into the carrier and I set off for home.

In the past, Molly had lain quietly in the carrier, almost asleep. Not this time. She was cross. She moaned and yowled. She made the same noise at me that she normally reserves for the pigeons on the terrace. She got more and more distressed. I almost turned the car around. Suddenly, I remembered that she liked music. I turned from Radio 4 to Radio 3 and she calmed down almost instantly. I heaved a sigh of relief.

Arriving home, she set off to explore again, as if re-discovering the place. Mindful of what Linda had said, I decided that I would give her the opportunity to come and be cuddled so, as I was sorting out my suitcase, I sat on the bed. Fairly soon she joined me. She did, indeed, enjoy a long cuddle. 'Right', I thought, 'it's the opportunity that she's been missing; less computer and more reading on the bed or the recliner'. So later, once the chores were completed, I took my book and settled on the recliner on 'Molly's' terrace. To my complete amazement, she soon joined me, sitting half between my legs and half on my stomach, only complaining when I stopped patting her with my free hand in order to turn a page. My new cat is a total delight. I suspect I may be doing more reading and less computer work in the forthcoming weeks.

The Journey From Hell

Yesterday, as I have already said, I flew back from Malta. It was meant to be a smooth journey. I had it all planned: flight landing at Heathrow at 7p.m., tube at 8 (enough time for disembarkation, customs and baggage reclaim) to St Pancras, arrive soon after 9, with plenty of time to catch the 10p.m. train. I had a cushion of about an hour. What could go wrong?

At Malta Airport ( a lovely, calming airport) I settled down with a book. It is rather a good book (an Elizabeth George thriller - and, no, she doesn't know I'm saying this) and I was engrossed. It was a good half hour after I had settled in the departure area that it occurred to me that we might be late. Sure enough, we were delayed. Eventually we boarded, but we were 30 minutes late leaving. We lost an additional 10 minutes in flight.

We landed. I was consulting my watch and telling myself that, provided everything went smoothly form here, all would be well. FAT CHANCE. We taxied towards the terminal, then came to a halt. An apologetic pilot explained that the outgoing planes were delayed and we would have to wait for our stand. We waited. For rather a long time. By the time we disembarked, we were almost two hours late.

I cleared immigration (no queues to speak of) and rushed for my bag. Which didn't come. It was the last bag on to the carousel. 'How can this be?' I asked myself, in disbelief, as I struggled the bag on to the trolley. I had almost given up, but there was still the Heathrow Express. By this time, it was 9p.m. I had an hour.

I made the train. Just. I collapsed into a seat. An announcement came over the tannoy: "We regret we have signalling problems and will be slightly delayed".

At this point, I gave up. I stopped rushing, just walked fast. At Paddington, I grabbed a cab: "Can you get me to St Pancras in ten minutes?". He pulled a face: "I can try."

We arrived at St Pancras at 9.41p.m. I had 11 minutes. I have never given such a big tip - I wasn't waiting for change. I got to the ticket machine at 9.50. I made the train with three minutes to spare.

REMIND ME NEVER TO DO THIS AGAIN.

Today, I say goodbye to Malta for the present

I am sad. I do not wish to return to England, with the rain, and the cold, and destruction of the NHS, and the lack of coherent policy. Of course, a holiday is a very different thing from living here, and the politics here care also Ian major muddle. But, somehow, when you can get into the sea and cswim away your worries, letting the water carry you and gentle you back into a good mood, it seems to matter less. I have had a very lazy week. I have swum, and sunbathed, and ad my books, and caught up with friends. I have eaten delicious fish and drunk rather too much white wine. And now I must return. I must pick up threads, return to the fight, do my best to prevent the destruction of the NHS. I have felt rejuvenated - until about a minute ago, when the concierge told me my taxi is here. Suddenly, I don't want to go at all. I want to tell the man to go away, fishy swimsuit out of my packed suitcase and head back to the sea. Of course, I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall smile, thank everybody, head off. But I have not felt this bad for many years. Perhaps the time has come to stop pretending and to accept that the career I thought I had bot up is over and that I could do worse than an idle life in Malta.

Joseph Calleja in Malta

Last night I went to the latest Joseph Calleja concert at the Granaries in Floriana, Malta. Calleja, the Maltese tenor who has carved an international reputation, and who is widely seen as Pavarotti's successor, entertained the thousands present with a combination of operatic arias and other songs. He was joined by Ronan Keating and by Gigi D'Alessio. It was a mesmerising performance. Calleja has a truly stupendous voice, which continues to grow in resonance and depth. His breath control has also become a thing to be marvelled at. He seriously out-performed the others on stage. At the same time, he comes across as a warm and personable man, gentle and unassuming. His recent elevation to Cultural Ambasssador for Malta is a fair one, and can only be good for Malta. I look forward to many more years of this incomparable talent.

Further News from Malta

Did I tell you it was Malta? I have a sudden fear that you did not know where the Island Paradise is. Well, it is here, on the tiny island of Malta. Three days in, I am so relaxed I even forgot a telephone conference that I had promised to dial into. It has proved extraordinarily easy to slip back into the routine of late rises, long days by the sea (or, better, in it) before returning to spruce up for an evening of friends and fun. Like so many Mediterranean peoples, the Maltese know how to live. Unlike many others, they work extremely hard. The economy is, on the whole, sound. Certainly the public sector could do with reforms, but it is nowhere near as bad as some other economies. Of course, a holiday is not the same as living here. It is a small place and can get claustrophobic. People settle scores: sometimes to the detriment of the country, as seems to be happening now. It is cultured, but limited in scope. But there is a lot more to celebrate than to regret. At least I thought so. But Malta should look after the sons who have served her well and not allow the point-scoring of a few politicians to decry and destroy the work of some of her best and most impressive. We should all be ashamed.

Island Paradise

Oh, alright, perhaps Paradise is an exaggeration - but not much. I have been here for just over forty-eight hours. In that time, I have swum, sunbathed, attended a wedding, enjoyed the food and the drink, and finally caught up on my sleep. I have met old friends, gossiped and generally had a good time. I have attended a cousin's wedding, solved the difficulties of the universe, and got slightly sunburnt because I underestimated the strength of the sun and how white I was. I am no longer white: I am variously pink, red and cream, depending on which bit you are looking at.

My hair and my skin feel wonderful. I put this down to the sea and the relaxation. Food, today, seems superfluous. The only really important thing is lots of water. I smile at everybody, and mostly they smile back. Soon, I shall return to my room. I shall sit out on the balcony, watching the sea, and the boats returning to harbour. I shall write a few notes and get an early night. And I shall be content. I wish Molly was here.

Journey From Hell: the plane I almost missed

I am exhausted. I have been up since six this morning (not an hour with which I am normally acquainted). When I awoke, my head still hurt from all the crying I did yesterday (see previous post) and I couldn't imagine why I wanted to leave the rain-soaked lands of one island for the sun-drenched shores of the other. However, the flight was booked, the taxi was coming, the bag was packed; and Molly was at the cattery.

When the taxi arrived, at 0700, I was ready. We were going to Gatwick. He would get me there in about two and a half hours, he assured me. Absolute worst case scenario, we would be there by 10.30. HUH!!! He was reckoning without a very bad-tempered M1 on a particularly rainy morning, with an unusual weight of traffic. By 09.30 we still had not joined the M25. I was breathing deeply and trying to think calming thoughts. There was no point haranguing the driver - it wasn't his fault.

I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that the flight was leaving at 11.55, and we got to the airport at 11.25. I thanked him, gave him a tip (I think I have become too anglicised) and raced for the check in desk, confident that all would be well - after all, I had checked in on line; all I needed to do was drop my bags.

I arrived at the correct location. I could see no check in desk. I asked. The check in desk had closed five minutes before. Disbelief washed over me. There must have been total desperation in my voice. I was on my way to a family wedding on the following day; I had to get this flight. A kindly security person took pity on me, disappearing behind the desks. Eventually a very disinterested check-in lady arrived, took my bag, pointed me towards security, cheerfully informed me that the flight would close in fifteen minutes.

I do not normally move quickly. Today was an exception. Security was fortunately relatively clear. I headed for the gate. I had ten minutes. No problem. Until I discovered it was the farthest gate - at least a twenty minute walk.

I panted to a stop at the gate at exactly 11.45, the time the gate was purportedly closing, you will recall. They had not started boarding. To say I was peeved is to understate the case considerably.

However, it is now several hours later. I am on the sun-drenched island, the sea is lapping at the shore, the white wine is good and I am relaxed. Perhaps the problem is the travel. Perhaps, I should just stay here.

Today, I took my cat to the Cattery

This afternoon, I took Molly Cat to the Cattery. It was the first time I had done this, but I assured myself all would be fine. She is, after all, a cat. I was not consigning my child to the Workhouse.

Frankly, I might as well have been. I arrived at the cattery with Molly in her carrier. She was less happy this time, distinctly grumpy. I found the place, parked and picked up the carrier. Molly was unusually silent. As I approached reception, I felt the familiar prickle behind my eyes. 'You are NOT going to cry' I told myself - to no avail. As I checked her in, I was blinded by tears. The nice lady was calm, told me I was fine, insisted this happened all the time. I could not decide what was worse: the misery of leaving her, or the shame of sobbing openly about it.

We took her to her 'room': it looks fine; the other cats are happy. I am miserable. The kind lady gives me a card: 'ring if you are worried'. I suspect I may be ringing her every day. With shame, I remember being irritated that my mother phoned the kennels about Jasper every day when she was with me. How could I have been so obtuse? They worm their way into your heart. I can't wait to pick her up again.

I am Shaking with Fright

Today, I decided that, having kept Molly indoors or on the 'safe' balcony for a month, it was time to introduce her to the other terrace. This is a long terrace, three floors up. Friends had said that I was being overly protective. Cats, they said, can cope with all that. They do not jump off terraces and kill themselves. I was sure that being able to sit out in the sun would be agreeable, so I poured myself a glass of wine, opened the door, and sat at the table. Molly followed, although rather suspiciously.

At first, all went well. She explored, stayed off the walls, came when I called her, sniffed at the plants and retreated into the flat regularly. I was happy. This was going to be a doodle, I thought. I could sit outside, with the door open, and she would wander in and out without any worries.

After a while, she got up on the garden table. I was less happy. It is an easy jump from there to the wall that has nothing between it and the ground. I watched carefully. She wandered, returned, jumped off again. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Two seconds later, she was on the edge of the wall. I was terrified. I did not want to go too near in case I frightened her into jumping. I tried calling her, but she was engrossed and uninterested in me. She wandered nonchalantly along the wall, occasionally leaning over with one paw poised. My blood pressure must have been about 700/500. I still have a headache. I was terrified.

She gradually meandered around the whole edge, before attempting to get on to the tiny rail above the glass. I could not take any more. I went forward and managed to grab her.

She is now very cross that she cannot go outside. And I think I may have a stroke or a heart attack tonight. If so, can somebody please look after Molly?

Pensions: Does Government have an ulterior motive?

To be honest, I never really questioned this. I swallowed the line that pensions had to be brought under control and just thought that doctors were not flavour of the month because of the opposition to the Health Bill. However, it has been pointed out to me that there might be a more sinister motive for this.

Sinister? That is a strong word. How can it be sinister? Let me put a case to you: NHS pensions are a good deal; nobody disputes that. For years, they have been taken into account when negotiating salaries, because doctors realise that they are a real benefit. We are not unreasonable; we have accepted that we should bear any further costs. So why is the Government doing this?

Is it even faintly possible that there is an ulterior motive? Well, having thought about it, YES! Private companies do not want to be saddled with good pensions for staff they are taking on. Indeed, that might be a real disincentive to the private sector. So, in a world where the Government is trying to get more private sector involvement in health, it is conceivable that said government might wish to reduce said pension burden. I don't wish to be a conspiracy theorist, but suddenly I am wondering how much of this battle is actually to do with the privatisation of the NHS. The pension pot is healthy. There was a tough but fair negotiation in 2008. Why would the government re-open this issue if it did not have an ulterior motive? Please let me know if you know the answer.

Industrial Action is Almost Impossible

As I said yesterday, I decided, after much soul searching, that I would participate in the day of action called by the BMA for today. I listened, in increasing despair, to the coverage on the Today Programme, with the biased reporting, the lack of evidence, the refusal to countenance that we might have a case. If anything, it increased my anger and determination.

As instructed, I presented myself at my usual place of work, determined to do only those things that were not urgent. But how do I assess urgent? I am a Public Health physician. I do not actually see patients. This afternoon we had the Individual Funding Request Panel, and I took the view from the start that attending that constituted the equivalent of urgent patient care for me. The problem was all the other things.

I have spent the rest of the day trying not to break the industrial action without being too idiotic about it. I have examined IFR requests that could be construed as having some urgency, but have left the cosmetic ones to next week; I have answered emails that might disadvantage patients if not sent, but have left the rest.

I am left with an overwhelming sense of futility. I do not believe that we have achieved anything today. The public will not understand, the government is intransigent and the impossible changes to the NHS continue. I despair at what I see as the wholesale destruction of what I hold very dear. And I continue to look for a job.

Tomorrow is Industrial Action Day

For years I have said that nothing would ever bring me out on strike. I am a doctor, a professional, dedicated to the population I serve. I would never put self-interest above the needs of my patients. Yet tomorrow I am preparing to take the, admitted very limited, industrial action called by the BMA. Why? What has caused this change of heart?

I must first say that it is only very peripherally to do with the actual pension, although I believe that doctors have been treated appallingly. The things that have made me decide to withhold my labour are:

1.    The NHS has been decried, vilified, and disorganised to within an inch of its life. The Government that got elected at least partly on a ‘no top down reorganisation of the NHS’ betrayed us quite deliberately and has set in motion changes that will not work and that will undermine the very ethos of the NHS.

2.    Public Health has been particularly badly treated, with a wholesale shift into Local Authority, fragmentation of the work force, and a total disregard for health services public health.

3.    The pensions point has been spun to a point that can only be called dishonest. The taxpayer (of which I am one) does not ‘pay for our pensions’, we do. We make contributions and have agreed to bear any increased costs. The pot is healthy and easily sustainable. There is no pensions crisis for doctors. This is pure politics, and is grossly unfair because it is not being applied to other public sector workers like Senior Civil Servants and Government employees, all of whom have similar arrangements but whose contributions have not increased and who are not facing a real cut in pensions.

In short, I am angry at the unfairness, the disregard for those of us who have given a lifetime to the NHS. And I can think of no other way of making these points. So, I apologise in advance to anybody who feels disadvantaged tomorrow, but I shall be taking industrial action.

The Delights of British Rail

Or, rather, East Midlands Trains. This morning I dragged myself from my bed at least half an hour earlier than I liked to catch a train to London for a meeting. I loath these early starts,particularly on Monday mornings, when I am never at my best. As usual, I ran late and rushed from the house, leaving both book and laptop behind. Fortunately, my trusty iPhone and iPad are with me. I arrived at the station with about five minutes to spare and heaved a sigh of relief. The front portion of the train was already there, but we were waiting for the rear portion. So we waited. And waited. And waited. Apparently there were 'signalling problems' earlier. At last, the train pulled in, about ten minutes late. A flood of humanity poured forth, rushing, jostling, irritable. Those of us on the platform stood back politely, waiting to board. We knew the drill: the doors would be locked again while the two trains were coupled, then we would be let on. Unfortunately, the trains had other ideas. They would not couple. There was much rushing of personnel up and down, an ever-growing collection of people stood at the coupling point talking and staring down. Still, it appeared, t he trains would not couple. Then suddenly, miraculously, and for no apparent reason, they tried again and this time it worked. The doors opened, we clambered aboard and we were off. We are running seventeen minutes late. I shall, again, be late for my meeting. You just cannot trust the trains in the morning.

The Further Adventures of Molly the Cat

Dear patient friends, those of you still bothering to check my blog when I have been so silent, today I return to the subject of Molly. Do you remember the syndrome I identified some time ago of Inexperienced Cat Owner? Well, I can tell you, it is very real and very dangerous. Also, humiliating. You may recall that Molly and I were locked in a battle of wills about her litter tray. Although she would enter it to wee, she was leaving solid offerings all over the bathroom floor. I tried everything: vinegar on the carpet, strong detergent, many explanatory talks. Wise cat owners told me not to bother - I was going to lose. But I couldn't afford to lose this battle. Two days ago, I surrendered. We now have a new litter tray and different litter, and for the last two days all has been well. But, you see how pernicious is the inexperience? I am now not sure whether the litter, the tray or the combination was the problem. So tomorrow, we start experimenting again. Because, truth be told, the present combination does not please me at all. It goes all over the place and the bathroom is a constant mess. Added to which, the rather stylish hand held vacuum I bought for the specific purpose of clearing spilt litter is no use for this bigger variety. So far, therefore, I have a beautiful and expensive but useless cat carrier, which has been replaced by a cheap but functional version that I can drop her into from the top; many large bags of the World's Best Litter, which she won't use; collars, harnesses and seat belts she will not wear; expensive toys she turns her nose up at, only being interested in feathers on sticks and squeaky mice. I am thinking of writing a book: The Beginners Guide to Owning a Cat. That's after I've put all this stuff on eBay, of course.

My Girl Thursday

Once a week, a young A level student comes to help me with my post and my filing. She is extremely efficient and I am lucky to have her. She is bright, intelligent and obsessed with fashion - what 17 year old isn't? When I suggest that the bag she carries around is far too heavy and that a back pack would be less damaging, she snorts in derision: back packs are not fashionable. Despite my age, I can remember the reality of that.

My Girl Thursday is immensely reliable: she turns up, does all and more than I ask of her, and helps me with Molly Cat. I have never seen her without a smile. She also leaves me endless lists of things I must do, which takes a certain nerve.

So, is there a problem? Yes. I could have offered her minimum wage. She could have been virtually slave labour. This would have been grossly unfair, given her talents and personality. Yet there is nothing to stop this. Surely we ought to treat our young people properly when they serve us well?

Conflicts of Interest for Public Health

Over the last few weeks I have become increasingly concerned about the potential conflicts of interest inherent in the new arrangements for Public Health for those of us who work in Health Services PH.

As you will all be aware, the majority of PH is being moved to the Local Authority (LA). From the very start of this upheaval it was clear that those who were designing the new system did not understand PH at all. In particular, they had no understanding of the three pillars of PH. I have explained before that these are Health Protection, Health Improvement and Health Services Public Health. I may even have intimated that only Health Services PH would be really disadvantaged, but the more we have learned the clearer it has become that this is not so.

Health Protection is that branch of PH that attempts to protect the public from both communicable and non-communicable health hazards, like the Legionnaire's Disease that we are hearing so much about at the moment. It also encompasses, however, the screening and immunisation programmes. It is clear that the Government equated this with the work that is currently undertaken by the Health Protection Agency (HPA) and it was of the view that it could be picked up and dropped into Public Health England (PHE) with a minimum of fuss and trouble. What the powers that be completely failed to take into account is that much of the day to day activity takes place, not at the HPA, but in the PH departments of PCTs. The result has been a shambolic rush to attempt to find a way to safeguard the screening and immunisation services, to attempt to define lines of accountability that will work in the new system, when half the staff will be in PHE (a branch of the Civil Service) and the others will be in Local Authority. In private, even Department of Health officials will admit that this is a real problem area.

Health Improvement is largely to do with lifestyle choices: smoking, alcohol, obesity. All of this is going to LA, where there will be interesting opportunities for collaboration. There will also, however, be opportunities for reducing budgets. It will, I suspect be very dependant on the strength of the Director of Public Health and local relationships, with the result that it will work very well in some places and very badly in others. I thought we were trying to improve the system, not make it worse.

Health Services PH is that branch of the specialty that deals with commissioning NHS services and dealing directly with requests for individual funding packages. This, we are told, will be provided by PH consultants employed by LAs but 'offered back' to the NHS though the Core Offer. It sounds fine, until you start to think about the detail. One of my responsibilities is Continuing Care: looking after the most vulnerable in our society because they are elderly, or terminally ill, or have a mental health issue, or have a learning disability. The rules are complex, but essentially there are ways of assessing whether an individual is entitled to Continuing Health Care, or whether the package of care needed to look after the individual should be jointly funded by health and social care. If somebody qualifies for Continuing Health Care, then the NHS picks up all the costs, even those that are essentially social care.

Am I alone in seeing the huge potential for conflict of interest here? Already I receive letters from both MPs and Local Councillors about individual constituents asking that we 'reconsider'. As it stands, that is fine; I can assess the case and decide whether there is a problem. But when my salary is being paid by the LA, there will be a far greater pressure to do what LA councillors want. I believe that is unconscionable. I am surprised that our elected representatives are incapable of seeing the problem.

A Disastrous Event for Molly Cat

On Sunday, with the sun shining and all to play for, and with the advantage of a friend here and a cat who would allow me to pick her up, I decided that we were going to get the choker collar and lead on to Molly so that we could all go outside. I picked her up and petted her, while my friend got the collar on her.

She was terrified and furious. She threw herself about. Although I was clinging to the other side, I could not get her on to the terrace. Where before she had been so keen to go out, now she just threw herself about, a hissing storm of anger and despair. After less than a minute I managed to get it off her and throw it away.

She still won't wear the harness. And she is still super wary. Another silly mistake. Oh dear. Cats are so COMPLICATED!!!

I am Dying of Heat

At last summer has arrived. I adore the summer. I love the heat and the light and the general sense of well-being. Ordinarily, I would be out on the terrace relaxing. However, there is Molly. She cannot go out yet, because it has not been made safe, so the only way she can come out is if she is on a lead. And I cannot get a lead on her.

I wish you could see us. As soon as I appear carrying anything that looks like a collar, she disappears, sometimes for up to half an hour. She is deeply unimpressed. And so am I, as I struggle in the heat with all the windows closed.

However, five minutes ago I decided that enough was enough. I can see no reason why her refusal to do what I want means that I have to sit indoors on such a glorious evening. I am now on the terrace. I assume the guilt will eventually pass.

Public Health is Heaemorrhaging

I make no apologies for returning to the vexed subject of Public Health and the impact of the recent Health and Social Care Act on that discipline.

Public Health (PH) is being moved out of the NHS and into Local Authorities. Our lords and masters tell us that this will work better, and so it might for some aspects of PH. I am perfectly happy to accept that the health improvement parts of PH, those things that relate to lifestyle and the wider determinants of health (e.g. housing and occupation etc) are very likely to find advantages and synergies in local authorities. Unfortunately, however, there is rather more to PH than that.

PH comprises three strands: the health improvement I have discussed above; health protection (that branch of PH that deals with communicable diseases, environmental threats and so forth); and health services PH, the branch that deals with commissioning of NHS services, with assessing proprieties, with commissioning pathways of care, with dealing with unusual requests for non-commissioned treatments. I have no expertise in health protection, and would not presume to speak for those in that field, but they are, in any event, being moved to Public Health England, not to the Local Authority.

Which leaves those of us in health services PH. I admit that we suffer from the fact that it is difficult to really explain what we do in simple terms. This may be because what we do is not simple. All I can tell you is that it is vital to the NHS. The NHS is facing a chronic shortage of funds and an increasing pressure to ensure that we only commission treatments that are evidence based and effective. And at this crucial time, those of us who are trained in this field have been written out of the picture. We are told that GPs will be commissioning leads, but this is patently ridiculous: they have neither the time nor the expertise. I would rather have my GP in surgery, available to treat me, than sitting in meetings trying to do not very well what I was trained to do. And it will be extremely expensive, since we have to pay locum fees for every meeting they attend.

As a direct result of all this, health services PH experts are leaving. We are a tiny sub-speciality, certainly less than 100, probably closer to 50. Yet in the last week I have heard of one person going to Canada, another to New Zealand's South Island ("as far as I can get from Richmond House" in his own words), two more taking early retirement. There are many others looking for ways out. We cannot afford or sustain this attrition rate. This needs to be acknowledged and addressed by the Department of Health before we are past the point of no return.

Molly Cat is a Hunter

When Molly came to me, it was on the understanding that she was going to be a house cat. Her foster carer told me that she had shown no interest in going out. As her confidence has increased, however, she is showing ever more interest in outside and has become surprisingly good at scaring the pigeons off the terrace even from behind the glass (of which I totally approve). I am glad that I have decided to fence off part of the second terrace to give her some outside space.

In the meantime, however, we have those squeaky mice on poles and elastic. She will play for hours if I can be persuaded. She certainly gets more than an hour a day. We walk up and down with Molly stalking the mouse at my feet as I drag it along. When I stop and let it stray from next to me, she crouches down and does this funny wiggle with her back side as she prepares to pounce. Sometimes, I laugh out loud and she is put off and glares at me.

I suspect her to be very intelligent. She is clearly highly suspicious of the part I play in mouse moving about and looks at me as often as she looks at it until the very end. She has also started sniffing suspiciously at the elastic.

And she has formed a major attachment to my new shoes. I now have to put them away to stop her playing with them. My cleaner approves. I do not.

HELP........

The subject is, once again, Molly's litter tray, for which I apologise.

Back in it? Well, yes, sometimes. And for some things. Basically, even though I have now taken the house bit off so that all there is is the litter tray, she is still leaving solid offerings near it. Why? I don't understand.

Help! What do I do next? I cannot think what I can do to encourage her back in. I cannot have my guest bathroom studded on a regular basis with faecal matter: a) it smells and b) it is unhygienic. I need to persuade her to get back in the box.

If there is anybody out there with a good idea, please post.

A Long Abscence

Today I had to leave Molly for almost twelve hours. Given the fact that I had another offering outside the litter box this morning, I was not totally happy, but there really was no choice.

I got home at about 8.30 this evening. I was determined that, regardless of anything that had happened, I was going to be her best friend. I arrived and she rapidly came to meet me. I deliberately ignored the bathroom and petted and played with her and fed her. Niceties completed, I went to investigate.

Hurrah!! The litter house had been used. She may not totally like it, but she is definitely back in it. I am a happy lady.

Unduly Optimistic

Oh dear. I fear we had an accident again yesterday. I was not happy and neither was she. I am not sure what to do next. I have tried enticing her back into the box. I really cannot do with ongoing mess.

On the other hand, she is clearly easily frightened and I have been an idiot. I have tried enticing her back into the box with feathers. Watch this space!

Molly has a Troubled Morning

I heard her, early this morning, yowling rather. But her foster carer had warned me that she made a lot of noise going in to the litter house (which, to be honest, she hadn't done with me so far) and I assumed that she was returning to old habits. I rolled over in bed and ignored her. Bad mistake.

Later, washed and bathed, cat fed and watered, I went to do her litter tray. Oh dear. What did I find? There was a solid offering by the bathroom door (her litter house is in the second bathroom) and the bathmat had been well and truly scrabbled about in an effort to hide the wet marks. I was the unimpressed one this time. However, I have to say, it is totally my fault. Put it down to the INEXPERIENCED & IDIOTIC FIRST TIME CAT OWNER SYNDROME (IIFTCOS). It is a disorder of which I have become very aware over the last week. So, what was the problem?

The litter house had arrived with a door, which I had not bothered to put on in order to make it easier for her to work out where things were. Yesterday, I decided to put the door on. It never even occurred to me that she would not use it. I blithely left her to it. As I said - IIFTCOS. I have taken the door off again. Hopefully, there will be no more problems.

The Cabby Who Made My Day

Today, I had to be at a meeting in London. Plan A was that I would be on the 07.50 train this morning, but  the best laid plans etc., so I was actually at the station at 08.05 (having just missed the 08.04) waiting for the 08.28. Unfortunately, the 08.28 was running late. It was 'expected' at 08.37.

It was cold this morning, far colder than I had catered for. There was the kind of chill in the air that I associate with late Autumn, not Spring. I retreated to the coffee shop. A stranger and I sat at a table, both watching the approach of our train on our iPhones: thus the modern world.

When we boarded the train, I texted ahead to say I would be about half an hour late for the meeting and settled down to do some work. It transpired that the delay had been caused by somebody not turning up for work at 06.30 this morning. The train had had to wait more than half an hour for a replacement to arrive. Can you imagine how you would have felt if you had turned up for an 06.30 train on a cold morning only to discover that it was going to be delayed for half an hour? No wonder so many of my fellow passengers looked unhappy.

Sadly, things got worse. A little further down, there was 'an incident on the line'. A further 10 minute delay. Twenty minutes later, we stopped 'waiting for a platform'. Another 10 minutes. By the time we drew in to St. Pancras, we were forty minutes late. I made a bee-line for the taxi queue. Wouldn't you know it? We had arrived just after a Eurostar train and it was pouring with rain. The queue stretched for miles and there wasn't a taxi in sight.

Abandoning it, I headed for the taxi queue at King's Cross, which was a little better, since there were at least taxis, but not enough. Cursing the fact that I had neither umbrella nor hood (I had left home in bright sunshine) I headed for the main road and, happily, managed to flag down a cab. And the Cabby was a delight.

He cheerfully explained that the traffic East to West was dreadful, but that he'd take some short cuts. He went past everything, at one point up on the pavement! He made me laugh and threatened to tell the law/other cabbies that it was all my fault because I was being so unpleasant to him. By the time I arrived at my destination (only an hour late for the meeting) I was relaxed and had a smile on my face. So Mr Cabby, if you are reading this, thank you very much indeed. You really did make my day.