I found similar difficulties with trying to make sense of
electrocardiograms. They had precision, and a whole language to match. Each
change in the recorded rhythm had meaning, and each slight change in different
parts of the wave could be interpreted. You would have thought that with my
parents both being artistically oriented, and with own abilities at visual
recall, I would have found it all easy. But there was a disconnect somewhere.
One afternoon, I was moaning about my difficulties after a bad
experience with a consultant berating my ability on a ward round. In the upper
reaches of the medical school, my colleague had come across a machine called a
GrundyTutor, and extolled its virtues. This was a bland-looking, rather
oversized, television on a desk in a small room with one chair. These days we
would think of it as a primitive computer, with a primitive keyboard, and
programmed with a primitive training for learning Electrocardiography. You had
to book times in a diary. There was a lengthy introduction with questions that
had to be answered before the machine would allow you to move on. I grew to
loathe this boring object in its isolation. But I flogged on, eventually
notching up close to 24 hours over some weeks. An image of an ECG would appear
with a brief clinical note; then there was a question to be answered by
pressing one of a number of buttons related to up to four answers. The screen
would change. If you were successful, a new image would appear. If you failed,
you were taken back to previous screens and relevant lessons to be completed
again and again until you got it right. There was no way to bypass the block;
you just had to get it right. I was determined to complete the program. I have
no idea why. There was no immediate reward system, and I felt like a laboratory
rat. Sadly, I seemed to continue to retain the ability to get interpretations
mixed up when faced with a consultant on ward rounds. But, given a number of
episodes that occurred later, I am glad I persevered until the end. More on
that to come! At this point, even with a sense of achievement, I craved light
relief from the boredom.
A very tall and blond, imposing student called Andrew Stanway had
taken over editorship of The King's College Hospital Gazette, a small in
house rag for med students to record events, notable people and bits of
creative writing. The Gazette had begun in 1921 and had a lengthy tradition,
publishing two issue a year. It contained articles, advertisements for events
and subsequent reports, photographs, requests for funding and all sorts of
other ‘ephemera’. Andrew needed an assistant editor, and in 1965 I had volunteered.
The tasks were not onerous, but involved spruiking the Gazette to others to
obtain possible articles, a few meetings to discuss content, some editing work,
and occasional writing. Every time I got really bored with study, there was
usually something else that allowed me to ‘goof off’ and pretend I had
important things to do. Andrew was a very strong character, and very much in
charge; so my responsibilities were few. For me, it was fun, and I continued to
play a role through to 1968.
One bonus was that you could get little bits
of writing published, and for some reason I thought I had some talent in that
area. An example is the little piece of doggerel I had penned in 1963 while a
resident at Halliday Hall (see episode 26, page ??). Andrew thought it was
worthy of inclusion in an issue. I was to go on writing a small series of
articles while a medical officer at King’s, but I may return to those at a more
appropriate time. I wanted to make a couple of points. The first is something
you already know about me; that is I am prone to taking up extraneous pursuits
when I am bored and need amusement. The more the pressure to complete serious
study, the more I seek diversion. The pantomimes and plays are a good example
of this game. They are fun, a creative community exercise, and provide
amusement for others; but they take enormous amounts of time and energy away
from what I could or should be doing. I was involved in drama as a serious
diversion both in school and out of school hours when I could have been
studying for exams; it translated to university, and later was to recur in my
life in Australia.
The second point is that the writing game
began while I was at King’s. As a House Captain, I had written tiny reports for
the school magazine. I would not say they are of great merit. But at King’s I
began to learn the trade of writing and some of the intricacies of publishing
that were to flourish in later years. The seed was sown. I have recently come
across a couple of books he has published on Sexuality. As it says on his site
“Dr. Andrew
Stanway is an experienced relationship therapist, bestselling author, and
presenter. He has written over sixty books about medicine and health including
those related to his main interest--psychosexual and marital medicine.” I guess the writing
game began at that time for Andrew as well.
Another diversion occurred at home and was
related to our birthdays for 1966. We talked about having a party, and inviting
all of our friends. I am not sure where the idea came from, but we decided to
have Italian food, and this extrapolated into having a ‘Roman Orgy’. This
sounds much worse than it was; we never intended a full on orgy, just a party
with a Roman theme. We asked everyone to come in Roman costume; pretty easy for
the woman, and slightly more difficult to organise for the men. And lots of
people got excited by the concept and went out of their way to dress up. Jan
had a suitable long dress, and we organised adornments. The two of us set about
making a centurion’s breastplate for the man of the flat. We procured some fine
chicken wire and pressed it into the shape of my torso. Over this we used
papier maché to build up a torso with muscular abdominals and pectorals. After
several sessions we succeeded and then painted it in gold paint. We went
through a similar process with a helmet, on which we fixed an upside down
cheaply purchased brush (as in brush and dustpan). This too was painted gold.
Spectacular! Jan made me a tunic and, with a pair of sandals, I was ready to
go.
I cannot remember where or when I acquired a
Scalextric track and cars, but I think I must have had them for a while. I had
this mad idea of creating a chariot racing game. I got hold of some balsa wood,
some plastic Roman soldiers, and some plastic horses. Over some weeks I built
several chariots around the engine and base from the dismantled cars. The slot
for the track went under the horse’s front hooves. The trial was pretty good,
though if you tried to make them go too fast, they spun off the track; but then
I guess there was a touch of reality in that.
We went to Borough market to get bunches of
grapes. Jan cooked up a massive pile of spaghetti and saucepans full of sauce
(may not have been Roman, but it was Italian). We had a load of chicken legs
and wings piled high on platters. We had organised plastic goblets for the
wine.
The night came. Our downstairs neighbor had
gone away for the weekend. Chris and Bob came downstairs, suitably attired, and
the flat filled to overload with about 20 couples. The kitchen filled with
bottles of wine and other contributions. Noisy couples, loud music, and loads
of laughter. The Roman Chariot racing was set up in the bedroom, and lasted
about an hour and half before wheels fell off, and plastic Romans fell out of
chariots. Laughter rang out. The wine flowed. We all started behaving like the
imagined Romans at a feast, lolling around (sorry, ‘reclining’), and throwing
grape pips and chicken bones over our shoulders. Well past 1am, Jan and I did
the beginnings of clearing up the disaster, with help from Bob and Chris.
Eventually we were so wiped out we just went to bed. When we looked at our
precious home the next day, we had very mixed feelings, and it took days for us
to find errant grape pips and the occasional chicken bone down the back of a
chair. Laughingly, we agreed to never do that again. But it had been a
spectacular success, and people talked about the whole show for months.
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