Summer’s leaks

The sun is shining. It’s very warm even at 7.30 am.  Og the dog and his minders are on their way to Togher woods for their morning constitutional. The woody fragrances are overlaid by those of bovine ordure, not unpleasant. SWMBO asks if I see the pretty flowers. Then she looks at me. Eyes running, nose streaming, chest heaving to force breaths in and out. ‘No, I suppose you don’t’. She’s right. Everything is a blur. So is the screen as I type, now an hour after we’re back, and after antihistamines, salbutamol and whatever it is that’s in the dark brown inhaler. Prickly eyes, prickly skin, it feels as if there’s a wire brush down my trachea. Oh bliss, summer is upon us.

Here is an extract for today from http://www.met.ie/: ‘Grass pollen affects up to about 95% of hay fever sufferers. The early-flowering grasses will be reaching their peak during the warm weather this week.’ What a joy. This, I suppose, is why bread makes me feel prickly inside, why whiskey and I have a fraught relationship (thankfully), why cakes and buns are not good for me. It’s kind of people to offer me them when I visit. A couple of weeks ago I took one, had a bite, then surreptitiously put the bun it in my pocket. Later that day when I was foraging for coins to pay the M7 toll I forgot about the bun so there was a shower of crumbs all over the front passenger seat. Still there I think.

My childhood in agricultural Cumberland was blighted by corn, wheat and hay. Going with my father into his flour mill was just not on, any notion of following in his footsteps unthinkable. Playing among hay bales soon demonstrated the law of cause and effect. Funny, though, I kept doing it. Wasn’t it Einstein who said that insanity was doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? I knew there was a reason why cold and sunny weather suits me best.

St Mary’s said no

Interviewing prospective medical students was always interesting in the old days. By old days I mean the days before interviews had to be structured for the sake of introducing what ‘experts’ called ‘objectivity’. Here’s an exchange from the 1980s.

Good afternoon. It’s good to meet you. I hope your journey was comfortable.
It was aw-right.
And how do you like living in XXX?
It’s aw-right.
Can I get you a glass of water before we begin?
I’m aw-right.
You’ve had a tour of the campus, I think. What did you make of it?
It’s aw-right.

And so it went on. Here’s one from the 1990s.

And what do you enjoy in your spare time?
I watch opera.
How lovely. Which opera are you particularly fond of?
Pardon?
Any particular opera?
Sorry?
I thought you said you liked Opera?
Yea, I did. On the TV every afternoon. Oprah Winfrey.

Honest, that’s true. It rather took the wind out of one’s sails, I can tell you. Hard to keep a straight face.

In 1968 I recall a trip on the sleeper from Carlisle to Euston. I arrived in London about 6 am and had to fill in time until the early afternoon for an interview at St Mary’s Medical School, near Paddington station. I thought I’d go to Piccadilly Circus which I’d heard of. I knew nothing of its—let’s say cosmopolitan and relaxed—reputation, and neither was my ignorance challenged that morning. After a breakfast burger at the Wimpy, the height of sophistication, I can’t remember how I filled into the rest of the time but somehow

I did. The only bit of the interview I can remember was the beginning. One of the three interviewers (men, suits, how-now-brown-cow accents) said ‘Tell us, Mr Monkhouse, what are you good at, apart, of course, from passing examinations. haw, haw, haw.’ What. a patronising shit.

They were, it subsequently became evident, mocking the piano and organ exams that I’d taken periodically since 1963. I was not offered a place. Later that year I had an interview at Manchester where we had a good deal of fun. They kindly said they’d have me if Cambridge didn’t. I think they, unlike the rugger-bugger yahoos at St Mary’s, were entertained by my being an organist.

Queens’ said yes …

The admission process for Cambridge was strange. I applied for an ordinary place at Queens’ College as well as an organ scholarship to any college that would give me one, the two processes running in parallel. I was interviewed by the then Senior Tutor of Corpus Christi College, a most urbane chemist (academic, not drug store), who sat me down on the chintz sofa opposite him, gave me a sherry (yes, really) and started a fireside conversation that I recall as glittery and great fun. Though details escape me, Shap fell was mentioned, there was talk of Gilbert and Sullivan and organs (musical), though nothing about medicine. The organ scholarship did not materialize (contemporaries were Stephen Cleobury, Ian Hare, Edward Higginbottom: I was never in that league) and although I never actually had an interview at Queens’, the Corpus one must have been passed across, as it were, for after sitting compulsory entrance exams, I was offered a place at Queens’. Escape from Cumberland.

… and so did King’s

In 1971, it was the normal practice for Cambridge medics to do hospital-based part of the medical course elsewhere. I applied to four London medical schools. I gave St Mary’s the old heave-ho this time. I was turned down without interview by two, turned down after interview by St Bartholomew’s (no recollection other than that it was sticky), and accepted without interview by King’s College Hospital Medical School in Camberwell. So there I went in autumn 1972. Susan and I were married in summer 1973 so I was one of the few married students. I failed the first part of medical finals in 1974, passed them with the second part in summer 1975. Thus ended my days as an unpaid student.

Towards the end of my time as a medical school academic, interviews became more and more structured until in the 2000s we had to ask every candidate the same questions, and were not allowed to follow any leads. This killed the whole process stone dead; there was no room for exploring, no way of probing, just wholesale encouragement of the initiative-stifling tick-box mentality that is rife. As for any quest for objectivity—pish! There is no such thing outside mathematics.

One of the results of structured interviews is that it becomes much easier to advise candidates on what to do and what not to do. If you’d like the benefit of my experience and advice, don’t hesitate to get in touch. My rates are very reasonable, and I could throw in a plenary indulgence or two and an all-purpose blessing.

Cardiology outpatients, some time in 1974. The consultant, now long gone to his reward, is an extremely eminent Harley Street cardiologist, pinstripe, bow tie, the works. The patient is a young lad with a heart condition. He is accompanied by his father, an artisan with a pronounced sarf Lunnun accent.

Consultant: Now, tell me my good man, what’s the young chappie’s name?

Father: Jensen, boss.

Consultant: Jensen, eh. That’s a most unusual name. How did you come by it?

Father: Well, yer see guv, the missus and me we like cars, and a Jensen’s a fantastic machine, so that’s what we called im.

Consultant: Oh, I see. That’s rather good. Pause. I must say, it’s as well you don’t like Rovers. Haw, haw, haw.