Christmas Day Celebrations at Stromness

I’ve just about recovered from the crippling heart burn and lethargy caused by eating my body weight in roast potatoes. It’s been an excellent Christmas aboard the James Clark Ross! I was a bit worried, to be honest, that I might feel a little bit grumpy about spending Christmas away from friends and family. You see, I’ve never once worked Christmas as a doctor! Yikes- I said it! I’ve ‘fessed up. Now is probably the time to hastily add that this is due to doing a lot of swaps and I have worked every single New Year’s Eve since qualifying- just in case Jeremy Hunt is reading and rubbing his little hands together over the potential news headlines. “Doctors don’t work Christmas Shocker!”

The chief science officer and the captain put their heads together to try to arrange circumstances so that most people could have some or all of Christmas Day off. I just put a sign on my door informing people that unless they had Ebola, it could probably wait until Boxing Day, but I think their preparations were slightly more complicated than mine!

Their plan was to put into Cumberland East Bay at South Georgia in order to pick up some science equipment and then to scuttle around the coastline to Stromness Bay in order to calibrate our scientific equipment. Apparently we dangled probes over the side and checked to see if we could visualise them with other probes. It sounded delightfully exciting but I think the project was chosen for Christmas Day so that the majority of people could just relax and have a nice day.

The Fram just sneaking into Cumberland East Bay ahead of us

And a nice day it was! The weather cooperated perfectly. For the first time in weeks, the skies were a beautiful cerulean blue with only the smallest wisps of cloud. The remains of an old whaling station lay on the shoreline, slowly and quietly rusting its way into history whilst the barks of fur seals filled the air. I did my best to get some photographs of the fur seals- but whilst they were beautifully acrobatic, leaping in and out of the water- they declined to come close enough to the ship for me to get a decent photograph! A little gentoo came paddling up to investigate however, so I papped him relentlessly.

Stromness Bay

Gentoo Penguin

Incidentally, the whaling station on the foreshore is the very one that Shackleton, Worsley and Crean reached on May 20, 1916. After the disaster of losing the Endurance, Shackleton’s men took to lifeboats and made for Elephant Island. They were still in danger however; Elephant Island does not lie across any shipping lanes and there was little chance of being spotted and rescued from the island. It was therefore decided that a team of six men should leave their twenty-two comrades behind on Elephant Island and sail, in an open lifeboat, for South Georgia and rescue.

On reaching South Georgia -in itself an incredible feat of navigation- it was felt that three of the men were so debilitated by the ocean voyage that they were not in any fit state to go futher. They remained behind and established a base camp beneath the upturned lifeboat, the James Caird, which was then termed Peggotty Camp.


The three fittest men- Shackleton, Worsley and Crean- then began a gruelling 36 hour march across the mountains of South Georgia to the Norwegian whaling station at Stromness. Shackleton related that on reaching the whaling station they felt not so much that they were safe, but that their comrades left behind had been saved. Apparently the three men left behind at Peggotty Camp completely failed to recognise a shaved and washed Worsley when he appeared the next morning on a Norwegian vessel to rescue them!


Regrettably it’s not possible to get off the ship and roam around the old station; it’s riddled with asbestos and high winds coming down from the mountains have been known to rip metal sheets off and send them scything down the beach.

The Whaling Station and Shackleton Valley just to the right

The old whaling station is starting to fall apart

Returning, however, to our Christmas Day, present opening happened- (I definitely feel that we should get a ship’s cat just so that someone can chase the wrapping paper around) and I feel horribly spoilt. Although I’m also disturbed by the emphasis on toiletries. Is this a subtle hint? I’m telling myself that my parents just didn’t want me to have loads of luggage to bring home...Yeah, that’s what it is. Definitely. I also have exciting hot chocolate and socks and puzzle books. And a lip salve which made my lips purr with happiness when I put it on! (They are so cracked and dry right now)

In the evening we had a fantastic Christmas meal. The roast potatoes were exemplary which is why I won’t be stepping onto the scales for a week or two. But. And this is a real and serious complaint. Why on earth is pudding on Christmas day always a festering Christmas pudding? What is so festive about raisins and currants? It’s such a rubbish dessert- we could be having chocolate mousse or sachertorte or sticky toffee pudding.... There are so many things that would be far nicer! I feel like Christmas is very prejudicial against persons like myself who are dried grape averse! (I shall be petitioning parliament later on this issue. Who’s with me?!) So I had to go and pester our purser Rich for my bar of dark chocolate and then sat in shameful solitude and scoffed the lot.

I had thrown together a Christmas quiz with one of the scientists and we had a really good turnout. There were seven rounds altogether- one of which focused on Christmas itself. What were the first artificial Christmas trees made from? Goose feathers. I do love a good factoid.  After the mild bloodshed and violence of the quiz (I don’t like being heckled, alright?) we all sat and chatted for several hours until someone pointed out that it had started to snow. We grabbed on outdoor clothing and rushed up to Monkey Island where the snow was thick enough on the deck to allow us to make snow angels. The European scientists then engaged in working collaboratively to make a snowman whilst the Brits ran around and attacked each other with snowballs. At some point we turned on our industrious European colleagues and pelted them with snow as well, thereby ruining their snowman and making them join in our hostilities. As someone pointed out later it really was a wonderful allegory for Brexit...

 

And here I am!

The Perils of Deep Sea Sewing

Net-gate has at last come to an end. Have I explained about this? The captain let people know, in a deeply callous fashion, that I can sew. So one of the science crew sidled up to me and asked out of the corner of his mouth if it was true that I had a sewing machine. I'm afraid I walked right into it and let myself down. I said yes, fixed him with a beady eye and said "But no-one gets to use it other than me." Fatal, foolish words.

I was asked if I would mind, just a teensy favour, altering a net for them. Like a chump I said that would be fine. And then they expounded on the joys of the project. The nets look like a cone that's had the tip lopped off. They wanted me to reduce the length of the cone whilst keeping the circumference at the bottom and the top the same. Maths GCSE had nothing on this- the only possible way to do it is to increase the gradient of the cone. After looking at the fabric of the nets- like a really fine version of the mesh used in plastic tea strainers- I realised that there was no way that my little sewing machine was going to cope. Sea water would rot any cotton thread used, so the whole thing would have to be sewn by hand with fishing line as my thread. I snapped two needles and bent innumerable pins whilst torturing my poor fingertips. Eventually I realised that the best way to pull the needle through the fabric was using artery forceps (there's an unexpected use for them) and that wearing latex gloves meant that the latex got shredded and stabbed instead of my fingers.

The nets- my one is the one on the right!

My wonderful stitching- the green fishing line

More of my stitching!

We trialled it today and not only does it fit on the frame but the scientists also successfully went fishing with it! I am so intensely relieved. The scientists were deeply excited because they’ve hauled up some tiny wee beasties including our first krill. I think they were also relieved that they didn’t have to witness the spectacle of the doctor becoming apoplectic with rage as the net failed to fit or fell apart on the first trial!

Leopold the Happy Krill

Fishing operations off the back of the JCR

We’ve been doing swath work over the last few nights. Swath work means using an echosounder to map features of the ocean floor. This would be a very laudable notion were it not for the fact that we sailed into bad weather in order to do it! I woke up at 2.30 as the ship gave a tremendous heave and a groan before attempting to fling me out of bed. Foiled in this attempt by the presence of my sea survival suit propping up the mattress, the JCR settled for flinging the contents of my cabin about. Eventually I took everything off the shelves and put it on the floor, reasoning that whilst it might slide about, at least I wouldn't get hit in the face by a ballistic camera tripod. So my cabin looks like a bomb hit it and I am frankly exhausted. I read in my bunk from 2.30-4.00 because it was simply pointless trying to sleep. We were doing 15 degree rolls to each side- which adds up to a glorious 30 degrees of sway!

In a slightly tetchy frame of mind therefore, I inquired of our geologists what exactly we were looking at on the ocean floor. (Add expletives to taste.) And it was really rather exciting. Apparently back in pre-sonar days, ships used to map the ocean floor (because beaching your vessel is always embarrassing) using weights lowered down to the ocean floor on bits of wire. Now, this was very good in terms of a broad-brush strokes picture of the ocean floor and avoiding the aforementioned beaching scenario but didn’t really allow for much of an understanding of what was going on down there.

 Echolocation solved that problem. This device works in exactly the same way as an ultrasound probe does; beams of sound waves are directed out into the surroundings. When the sound waves hit something that has a different density –like the ocean floor (or a foetus if you’re looking at pregnant ladies)- then the waves bounce back and are picked up by the receivers on the ship. Because we can direct our beams from several angles- we get a complete picture of what the ocean floor looks like. A lot of this work is done nowadays by radar from satellites- but the satellites are a bit too far away to provide the fine detail needed for our geologists.

The geologists are curious about bits of continental crust that have ended up in the middle of the ocean floor. They wonder if perhaps these bits of continental crust represent parts of South America that peeled off in ages past and went off in a huff to sit in the middle of the Atlantic and Southern Oceans- forming islands like South Georgia for example. So the swathe work is vital to find these hills on the ocean floor. The geologists can then dredge up rocks from these lost bits of continental crust and determine if they actually match something in South America. If they do...then geologically speaking South Georgia may be a very far flung out posting of South America!

Regrettably our circuits classes have come to an end. The main hold is now stuffed full of things to be delivered to Rothera and there’s no floor space for the mats. I’ve been driven down into the science hold to do anything that requires mat work (I avoid the gym like the plague now). I’m using a TRX-type trainer which is fairly entertaining- the device consists of two long straps of alterable length that are suspended from the deck head (ceiling to everyone else). Using them is supposed to add instability into the workout with the idea that it really focuses on your core. Allow me to assure you that it does! Half of the exercises, I can barely do. Although I’m putting that down to the brisk motion of the ship and not the vast number of pastries that seem to be mugging my taste buds and forcing their way into my digestive tract.

The science hold and my gym. I skip in this space which is fun when the ship rolls.

 I’m also skipping in the hold. I’m slowly but surely getting better at this. Sometimes a whole 20 seconds can pass without whipping myself so hard in the back of the head that I see stars and seriously wonder if we need to divert the ship. The reason for this sudden fitness enthusiasm is that in a moment of naivety (read: stupidity) I said to my other half that he can pick the holiday when we get back to the UK. Why did I do this to myself? I have a horrible feeling that he'll pick something excessively active! And so instead of degenerating into comfortable sloth and size 24 trousers with a gleeful smile, I’m going to have to exercise so that I don’t die when I get home.

Anyhow, enough of my slightly manic caffeine fuelled maunderings. Have a lovely day my cherubim!

The JCR when it's a little bit...rough.

So, I hasten to add that this video is from the last trip, on our return into the Falklands. But I thought it might be nice for you to get a feel for the motion of the boat when it's a little bouncy. Hope this loads up for you (it took me ages to work out how to clip the video!).

I think this second video is even better, if slightly off-centre!

The Festive Season is Nigh...

Having a slightly surreal moment this weekend; my lovely other half and my parents are meeting up for a pre-Christmas lunch. It feels very alarming not be there to control all eventualities. Not to be able to kick my father under the table if he becomes more than usually strange (this is the man who once attempted to locate a duck pond by quacking) or indicate to my other half, very gently, that my mother will definitely NOT be on social media. Although she is now reading my blog (“David, where have you put Helen’s blog?”) so who knows, I may come back to find her friending me on FaceBook and asking plaintively why I keep ignoring her tweets. But in the spirit of Christmas, I thought I might share the preparations that the James Clark Ross is making for the big day and the ways in which previous expeditions and explorers have chosen to celebrate this midwinter festival.

I should probably mention that I love Christmas. Absolutely love it. It's the one time of the year when it’s acceptable to have chocolate and alcohol with breakfast, to eat until you feel mildly sick and to open presents with the same kind of joyous abandon with which Scottish reavers descended on particularly affluent villages. So it won’t be a huge surprise to know that I’ve posted my Christmas cards from the Falklands. They may well arrive sometime after the New Year, but this is not the point. The point is that I tried! My presents for family- various souvenirs from the James Clark Ross- have already made their way home with the previous crew and even now I’m waiting for the rapturous cries of joy (which will be clearly audible across the Atlantic) that will greet the discovery of a JCR-logo’d top that’s far, far too small.

The drawers under my bed are stuffed with glossy papered presents- waiting, full of promise, for me to open them. I’ve left one of my bars of dark chocolate with the purser, under strict instructions that he can only give it to me on Christmas day (or I probably won’t have any left). My favourite decoration- a stocking that I think my Mum made- is hanging in pride of place on my curtain rail! And most importantly I’ve started listening to The Hogfather audio book, without which it is impossible for me to feel properly festive. And also more keen than usual on black pudding and all related pork products...

My stocking

Before leaving the good ship JCR, the scientists on the previous cruise were kind enough to put up the Christmas tree and decorate the bar/social area. It now looks deeply festive in a wonderfully garish kind of way. If I was to be unkind, it looks slightly like Santa vomited in the bar- which I always feel is the optimum kind of Christmas decor to aim for. If there aren’t enough twinkly lights to blind a reindeer then what, may I ask, is Christmas really for? Regrettably, as we have quite a tight time frame to get all the science work finished before getting to Rothera, it doesn’t look like we’ll be taking Christmas off. We might have a half day, however, which would be very nice. And I’ve been assured by the head cook and his sous chef, that we will still have roast turkey with all the trimmings!

Christmas is for many a Christian festival, but there have been midwinter festivals celebrated for thousands of years. Generally these occasions are related to the winter solstice and probably celebrate the fact that the nights are finally getting shorter and the sun is slowly returning to the skies. In Antarctica, things are slightly topsy turvy. Whilst Christmas may still be celebrated by the teams down there, the December period of the year doesn’t represent a period of darkness and enforced inactivity. Rather December is the mid-summer period when the majority of outdoor work can be done. The actual midwinter celebrations in Antarctica are usually partaken of by the wintering teams who make each other presents and have a mid-winter feast.

But Christmas still has its place for the Antarcticans. It may not be necessary to salute the return of the sun, but it’s always a good idea to have a celebration to lift the spirits of the team and to provide a safe outlet for difficult emotions. The Belgica expedition in 1898 became mired in the sea ice of the Bellinghausen Sea for almost a year. Amundsen reported that the crew began experiencing gloomy thoughts, paranoia and began hearing “uncanny screams” after a year of consuming what the ship’s doctor called “embalmed beef” in tins. Cook (the ship’s doctor) gives a description of a particularly bleak and dismal Christmas dinner in which the crew had to feign enthusiasm and “doubt of our future was pictured on every face.”

Lessons were learned from the experiences of the Belgica expedition and attempts were made to introduce a spirit of frivolity into future Christmas celebrations. It was difficult to have a full Christmas dinner whilst manhauling sledges across Antarctica, but Christmas was at least a time of double rations. Scott’s Discovery expedition feasted on “pemmican, biscuit, seal liver, boiling cocoa and large spoonfuls of jam” during Christmas 1902. One hopes, not all in the same bowl-full. This represented a welcome break from a period of semi-starvation and Scott described a “sense of comfort which had not been experienced for weeks.” Scott also mentioned Shackleton ferreting in a sock, only to produce a plum pudding which he had squirreled away for the occasion and served immeasurably to lift the spirits.

The most impressive celebrations however, were by the ship Erebus which was captained by James Clark Ross – our namesake. The Erebus anchored itself to a massive ice floe and the crew carved from the floe a ball room complete with ice throne for Cap’n Ross and a refreshment area with an ice table! I feel that this sounds like a splendid idea; I can just see us lighting up an ice berg with flashing disco lights as Noddy Holder booms out into the frosty Antarctic air...

“Merry Christmas Everybody!”

 

 

 

NB : I recommend the very interesting article “Christmas at the Poles” by Shane McCorristine and Jane Mocelline in the Polar Record Vol 52 Iss 5 Sept 2016.

The Birds! And Rockhopper Penguins!

As any non-medic who has been unfortunate enough to attend a medic party will testify, doctors love to talk shop. It’s just one of our favourite things. We have a wealth of smutty jokes, revolting anecdotes and our war stories turn most people pale and queasy. We like to pass it off as laughter in the trenches and the only way to get through the emotional burden of it all (and sometimes this is definitely true!) BUT my suspicion is that most of us are just plain weird. Hanging out with sailors has therefore been a pretty good surrogate. Most of them don’t flinch over my potty mouth or look surprised when I snigger at the dirty jokes...and then contribute my own. My only concern is that I may actually be turning into a man. And when I’m feeling really paranoid, that it wasn’t that big a step anyway!

But this was never going to be enough. It’s like a one-hundred cigarette- a-day man going onto nicotine patches- sooner or later they long for the real thing. And today I got it! I wrangled my way onto a neighbouring ship (by the clever manoeuvre of asking for a tour) and was taken to meet the doctor. It was infinitely reassuring. The same problems, the same hiccups. The same horror of dental work (how do dentists find so much space in what is, after all, quite a small area?) and most enjoyably he also had a copy of the Ship Captain’s Medical Guide. Don’t leave home without it! So I’m feeling curiously upbeat. Underlying all of this is the feeling that I am still actually just five years old and I’m not quite certain why the grownups have let me go to sea. So it was deeply soothing to meet someone else doing my job and to hear that they’ve had similar experiences and struggles.

This feeling of eternally being a child is actually fairly ironic given that I celebrated my 32^nd birthday as we reached Stanley. How did I get this old? I had a wonderful birthday however. A vast number of parcels were waiting for me as we docked; my mother and sister sent me lots of dark chocolate and a pair of earrings (thank you Pookie!) and my Dad sent me books and DVDs. I have to report that the cherry flavoured Lindt dark chocolate was much appreciated by the cognoscenti at morning smoko (that’s coffee break- no actual smoking) but I’m being very selfish and keeping the rest to myself. Every so often I take my chocolate out of the fridge and stroke it, murmuring “My precious” to myself. I feel that this is totally legitimate behaviour.

 I was thoroughly spoilt, opening all the presents and cards that I was sent South with. Hand creams and soaps, books and notebooks. My favourite thing without a doubt is a selection of loose tea with a tea strainer- type thing which lends a certain elegance to my tea breaks. This is in no way detracted from by the fact that I drink my tea from a mug with penguins on it.

Once ashore in the Falklands, my time is pretty much my own. If the crew or scientists need medical assistance there is a hospital in Stanley, so I’m encouraged to escape the ship. I therefore leapt at the opportunity to visit a colony of Rockhopper penguins at Murrell Farm. We were driven by Landover along the bumpy gravel roads to Murrell Farm itself and then off-roaded for an hour before reaching Kidney Cove. I could smell the Rockhoppers before I jumped out of the Landrover, and the screeching din assaulted the ears from yards away!

Rockhopper enjoying the sunshine

Kidney Cove

 The waters of kidney cove are of a bright aquamarine shading to dark blue and full of kelp. The mouth of the cove is very narrow which helps to keep the waters of the cove relatively placid even when the fury of the Southern Atlantic is hammering the coastline. No doubt this is why the Rockhoppers have made their colony here and it’s easy to see how they’ve earned their name. These penguins look like a strange cross between crazed chickens with their red eyes and their crests and Igors as they hunch over, the better to spring from rock to rock on their way up from the waterline.

The crouch...

The leap...

Phew...the safe landing

The Rockhoppers are full of a pugnacious character that becomes apparent whilst watching squabbles breaking out over bitterly contested pebbles or territory. The anxiety of the birds was well merited though. Whilst we were there, a skua was actively hunting and twice stole chicks from the nests.



Fighting off the Skua

Circling for another attempt...

My other birthday treat to myself was a round robin ticket on a flight around the islands. The Falkland Islands Government Air Service (FIGAS) is an airline that provides on-demand flights out to remote communities. The planes arrive either bearing supplies or providing transport into Stanley or other communities. Many of these remote farmsteads may consist of two or three families living in comparative isolation and these flights are a vital link to the outside world. It’s possible to book a ticket and simply enjoy views afforded by the trip.

The flight that I went on started in Stanley, headed north to Port San Carlos and then hopped across to Pebble Island before heading south through the skies to Sea Lion Island and finally Stanley again. The plane was a Britten-Norman Islander with two propellers and capable of seating 8 people including the pilot and co-pilot.

My ride

I didn't touch anything!

I’ve never flown in a plane that small and I was allowed to sit in the co-pilot’s seat! We took off and landed on remote airfields that consisted of a strip of mown grass and a wind sock and I thought to myself that I had never done anything half as cool before! The views were astonishing. The land was a creamy mint colour with grey rocky spines projecting from the earth. The sea was a bright cobalt blue and we were lucky enough to see sea lions and whales from above.

I'm not sure this needs words

The airstrip at Pebble Island

The world from above

I was informed that the Giant Petrels have started to become pests. Their numbers have increased in the Falklands which has meant that rather than scavenging as they normally do, they’ve been forced to start hunting. They force penguins under the water until they drown and they’ve also been known to attack and kill ewes in the middle of lambing. As our plane gained height over Sea Lion Island we banked to take a closer look at a killer whale carcass being stripped by a team of busy birds. The pilot remarked nonchalantly that he’s known a whole fin whale carcass to be stripped by them in less than three weeks. And then we were speeding away, back towards Stanley and the friendly, familiar shape of the James Clark Ross at harbour.

JCR from above

Yes, I still have my appendix!

(I should probably mention that bits of this post are a bit...graphic. Sorry.)

I’m feeling rather smug this afternoon, having wrestled with and finally subdued the autoclave. For those who don’t know, the autoclave is a bit of kit that is used to sterilise instruments. Control of the autoclave usually lies safely in the hands of theatre staff who may be trusted not to screw it up. This is because they have completed THE TRAINING. If you do things without THE TRAINING, badness will result. I can’t be specific- but I’m pretty sure that zombie apocalypses are involved.

My autoclave

 Now, I’m all in favour of staff having to demonstrate that they can successfully use a piece of equipment before they’re let loose upon it. But personally I find that it stifles any urge that I might have to experiment. I tread warily around new toys, nervous of what I might do to break them. The great and noble urge (as the late and wonderful Terry Pratchett would have it) to “stick your finger into the plug socket of the universe just to see what would happen” has been quashed by the layers of safety built into our everyday lives.

In part, this has been one of the more empowering (to use an irritating word) aspects of working for BASMU. I’m a one-woman hospital; if I want equipment sterilised or X-Rays taken, I have to use the training that we received or work out how to do it myself. Before starting this job, I had never even seen the equipment used to cross match blood samples, let alone been the proud possessor of the necessary bits! And whilst I very much hope that I never have to use that particular facility (If I’m doing blood transfusions at sea, the situation has deteriorated somewhat) it’s nice to know that probably nothing terrible will happen if you just poke around a bit.

Clinicians from a century ago had the burden of being much more self-reliant. “Call the Midwife” and James Herriot’s books about working as a veterinarian in the 1930s are full of tales of make-shift operations in stables and the delivering of babies in East-end slums. And they did all this without any of the backup that I can call upon in my daily job. I visited the site of the Thai-Burma railway line (on the border of Thailand with now Myanamar) which was built through the labour of Allied soldiers in Japanese POW camps. The thing that struck me was how doctors in the camps improvised in truly appalling circumstances to treat their patients. I even remember seeing pictures of syringes that were made from lengths of bamboo!

Before coming South, loads of my fellow doctors relayed a story that was published in the Christmas edition of the British Medical Journal. Apparently a Russian doctor, whilst over-wintering in Antarctica, had developed appendicitis. I was informed, with unseemly relish, that he had taken his own appendix out with nothing more than a lot of local anaesthetic and an assistant to hold the mirror. No, the story got better; it was two assistants! An extra one, in case the first one fainted! I would then be fixed with a beady eye and asked if my appendix was still in situ. I could tell that my questioners were already picturing me on the operating table, scalpel in trembling hand, beads of sweat breaking out on my upper lip as I made the first dread incision into my own abdomen...

To a certain extent, this willingness of doctors in days gone by to “have a go” may reflect the levels of medical knowledge one hundred years ago. Jack London relates an eye watering tale in his “People of the Abyss” of a homeless man in the Whitechapel district of London in 1905. This gentleman attended a hospital with a hernia which was then smeared with Vaseline to help reduce it and was then turfed out onto the streets. It might be laughable if not for the fact that the man died later from a strangulated hernia.

 In the trusty “Ship Captain’s Medical Guide” the indefatigable Charles Burland , MD FRGS, confidently recommends “a brisk emetic in the form of half a teaspoonful of Ipecacuanha...a cup of hot strong coffee is also useful...” to treat acute asthma. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for cups of coffee. I’m just not sure that the middle of an asthma attack is the right time to administer one. Or indeed to start bouts of vomiting.

Charles Burland's exhaustive text on what the Captain could expect medically

My favourite museum in all the world is the Herb Garrett and Old Operating Theatre opposite Guy’s Hospital in London. I particularly love the descriptions of surgery in the days when speed was what you really looked for in a competent surgeon. The operating theatre was sited above a church, which meant that the space between the floor of the theatre and the rafters of the church had to be packed with sawdust lest blood drip onto the heads of the congregation below. There was a bucket of sawdust that lived under the operating table and would be kicked towards whichever end of the table had the worst “run-off”. And when the contents of the bucket resembled a “bloody porridge”...the cry would go up “More sawdust!” The state of a surgeon’s white coat generally indicated his (no ladies in those days- boys only club) level of experience- a muckier coat indicating a greater level of experience.

Old Operating Theater

So in no way do I wish for a return to those bad old days. Things like pathology and radiology should be done by people who are experts! Patients deserve to be treated by specialists.

Hmmm...strangely maggots do still sometimes get used in wound management

But as specialisation marches on within our hospitals, it’s awfully nice to have a chance to experiment with these skills and to improve my understanding of them. Admittedly this urge “to boldly go” did lead to a certain amount of apprehension (read- naked fear) on my part. I was utterly convinced that at any minute the autoclave would go “bang” and fill the room with clouds of super-heated steam. Half an hour was therefore spent cowering in the corner of my surgery behind the A&E trolley (which I didn't doubt could protect me from the shrapnel of the exploding autoclave) and squealing nervously every time it let out a little hiss of steam. But, I am proud to say, I did it. I took one little step closer to self-sufficiency. I acquired a new skill. And from now on, I shall look at autoclaves with a steely gaze and take no more of their nonsense!