Computer Chaos?

I was listening to Radio 4 (as I so often do) and heard somebody saying that research had demonstrated that successful and productive people had tidy desks. Untidy desks were likely to be associated with lack of productivity and general uselessness (I don't think that is the phrase he used, but it was clearly what he meant). I pondered this. What did this say about me, if anything, and could the research be flawed?

I have, now, to confess that every desk at which I sit is a tip. Currently, I have three desks: home, job 1 and job 2. Job 2 is a hot desk, so is reasonably tidy. The others are atrocious. The desk for Job 1 is covered in papers, most of them with scribbled notes. I know what they mean, and the issues get dealt with in order. If I walk under a bus, nobody else will have a clue.

My desk at home is a totally different affair. There are few papers, but there are pens, and scissors, and treat bags for Molly, and calling cards, and forgotten gifts, and post-it notes, and stamps waiting to go to charity, and abandoned phones, and wires, and CDs, and, and, and. In other words, total chaos, which Molly adores and plays with, thus making the confusion worse.

'QED' I hear you cry. But it is not so. The reality is, that I can always find everything on my desk. It is clear to me why things are where they are and I have no difficulty. This is NOT the case with my computer files. Here, I have been careful: everything is organised, tagged, filed in the right place - AND I CAN NEVER FIND THE ONE I WANT!!!! Perhaps I ought to try chaos in the computer files as an alternative? Has anybody else tried that?

So Close to Disaster

You will have gathered by now that I am very fond of Molly Cat, even if I am the most useless cat owner. I have learned a lot in the last nine months, and we get on very well now. Admittedly, we haven't completely cracked the food thing (I never know what and when she will eat) and she still makes it perfectly clear that she would love to go and explore the great blue yonder. However, we are generally happy and I love her dearly.

Now, as it happens, next week is Selection Centre week, and I have to be in Loughborough from Monday to Wednesday. Last Wednesday I was contemplating this while playing with Molly, trying to make decisions about what to take, when horror descended on me. I suddenly realised that I had made no arrangements for Molly. How could this have happened? How could I have been so completely useless?

Answer came there none. I do not know why I did not realise. But the truth is, that I had to sort something out. And fast. I am lucky: both my cleaner and my other assistant were prepared to help. In the end, there will be somebody here all the time. But it is a good lesson: I must not forget that Molly Cat needs sorting out if I am going away! It isn't just holidays that need arranging. Sorry Molly!

Feeling Wanted and Useful

As you will know if you have read my other posts, the NHS is being radically altered, and Public Health is being dismantled (no point in pulling punches at this stage) by the Health and Social Care Act. All through last year, the fight to save the NHS kept me going. I worked ridiculous hours, often till 2 or 3 in the morning then up again at 6. I wrote letters, sent emails, drafted papers.  When the Bill became an Act, I was devastated, but I did not realise the totally negative effect it had had upon me. Indeed, it is only now that I am beginning to comprehend the reality and to wish to comment on this.

What I had failed to realise was how deeply I had imbibed the constant message that we in Public Health had failed. Added to that, as transition came closer, more and more of what I did was dismantled. I do Health Services Public Health - NHS facing - and that is not popular with our new masters, the Local Authorities.  I felt as if my entire working life had been wasted. Essentially, unrealised by me, I felt a total failure.

Then, at the end of 2012, a job came up at a University. I adore teaching and training. To me, there is no more important task than passing on the torch to the next generation. We need to enthuse, to excite, to enthral. Sadly, I had never had the credentials for an academic job; and, anyway, I did not really want to spend all my life doing research - I wanted to do both teaching and research. Suddenly, here was the perfect job - a good balance between research and teaching, working with colleagues I knew and respected, in an institution I was impressed by. I wanted that job. Badly.

I applied. I waited. I was called for interview. The interview was daunting, but I felt I had not totally disgraced myself. Then it went quiet. For days. I got increasingly nervous. On Christmas Eve, I was offered the job. To say I am ecstatic about it is to seriously undersell my reaction. As I start to meet people and to understand the job better, my whole life seems more interesting. Suddenly, I want to get up in the morning.

That was the realisation that came to me today. For the first time in months, I believe that I can make a real contribution, that I have something to offer. I am feeling wanted and useful. I cannot tell you how that feels: the total relief and sense of purpose. And I realised that, for so many, they never have that feeling, and that is soul-destroying. We need to take more notice of people's need to be needed. It is an intrinsic human trait. We all accept that long-term unemployment is bad for people, but so is working in a job that people do not perceive to make a contribution. The contribution does not have to be ground breaking, but we all need to feel wanted and useful. Employers and Government would do well to remember that.

The Good Samaritan Lady

The week before last, we had a lot of snow. On the first serious snow day, I had to be in Leicester. As luck would have it, I had planned to go by train, which was obviously a very good thing. Sadly, I am not good at snow, and I am VERY bad at ice. Unfortunately, even after all these years in this country, I still do not really get the whole proper shoes bit. So, to cut a long story short, I set off for the train in a pair of shoes with absolutely no tread. Disaster was practically guaranteed.

During the day, this did not matter. I was careful, and I was with a wonderful colleague who ferried me about in his car and made sure that I did not have to cover vast sweeps of ice. All went well and, as I caught the train home, I was congratulating myself. I alighted somewhat gingerly at Nottingham, and headed for the entrance. I was late (about 9.30 p.m.), and in a hurry, because poor Molly cat had been alone since eight o'clock that morning and would be cross and hungry.

For those of you who do not know Nottingham, I must explain that the station is undergoing a major refurbishment, with all the chaos that implies. The main entrance has been moved to a side road, but I still use the 'old' main entrance to get in and out, because I find it more convenient. On that day, I did precisely that, and emerged onto the street. The pavement there is very wide, probably about 6 feet (sorry, I don't do metric!) and, to my horror, it had not been gritted. As I stepped out, it was sheet ice under my feet, and I only saved myself from falling my grabbing at the coping on the wall. I will not pretend that I was not shaken, but I had to get round the corner to the taxi rank (no way I was walking home in this) so, still clutching the wall, I took a tentative step. My foot slipped; I clung on for dear life, but did not fall. Grimly I thought, I can do this if I can hang on to the wall. Three shaky paces later, I came to the place where they had turned the pavement into a slight incline to allow for wheelchairs and pushchairs, and where there was no wall. In despair, I clung to my piece of wall and considered my position.

I have to confess that at this point I was feeling like a toddler needing its Mummy. However, I obviously had to behave like a grown-up, so I decided that my best bet was to return to the station entrance in the same ignominious manner that I had achieved my two yards of progress, ring for a taxi and explain that the driver would have to come as close as possible and would have to get out and help me across the ice. I was psyching myself up to do this, when a voice said "Are you alright?"

At this point, I was facing the wall. I turned my head tentatively and there was a lady (I use the term advisedly), younger than I am, but not in the first flush, so to speak, smiling at me. I was totally taken aback, but I am also a Mediterranean. Any proper Brit would have replied, 'yes, fine, thank you' and watched her walk away. I did no such thing. I summoned up my Mediterranean heritage and explained, in florid detail, what the problem was. Her smile was kind. She offered her arm. I demurred. She explained that she had good shoes and that if I held on to the wall with one hand and her with the other she would get me to a taxi. And she was as good as her word. She walked me the fifty or so yards to the taxi, waited till one arrived, and helped me into it. She was amazing and wonderful.

I wish, now, that I had asked her who she was, so that I could offer her dinner some evening. If, by any unlikely chance, you are reading this, please get in touch. In the mean time, all I can say is that she restored my faith in humanity. I would never have expected this to happen. Thank you, dear lady.

Very Bad News

Well, dear friends (if anybody is still out there) - I'm back. I must, first, apologise for the long silence. In my own defence, I was extremely unwell over Christmas, being housebound from Christmas Eve to January 8th, at which point I turned up for work and was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was in no fit state to be working. I am grateful to the colleagues who bullied me into seeing a GP and getting some proper medication. You know who you are: thank you.

Secondly, being housebound and poorly does not provide a lot of interesting stuff to write about. To add to the difficulty, as soon as you start feeling better, you are desperately trying to catch up, so you are even less aware of what is happening outside the world of work. Pathetic!

However, today I decided that enough was enough, and that I was going to start boring you again. And the reason for this is that we had had some very bad news, and I realised that I had not sent out the appeal for prayers (if you believe in them) or positive thoughts if you don't, that I had done on Twitter. Some of you will know that I collect God-children. I have ten. One of them has a lovely little sister (let's call her B) who is fifteen months old. Over Christmas, B was diagnosed with a hepatoblastoma. For the non-medical people among you, this is an extremely rare form of liver cancer that occurs in young children. B is now undergoing chemotherapy, and holding up well, but clearly this is a difficult time for the family and all those who love them.

So, I say again, for those of you who share our Faith in a beneficent God, please remember B and her family in your prayers. For those of you who do not, please send positive thoughts into the Universe: it can't do any harm.

And I promise to be more cheerful next time.

Belated Christmas and New Year greetings everybody.

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!