Cut out to be a surgeon

SON number three is hoping to become a doctor.

I’m encouraging him all the way. It’s that difficult to get an appointment at our surgery, he’ll be qualified sooner. Leastwise, I won’t have to sit in a room full of swine flu-carriers waiting to see him.

Had things been different, I’d have trained to be a surgeon. Oh yes, if I’d had the education — or the brains — you’d be calling me Mr and assuring me you felt fine. I do it every time. Walk into that surgery and the doc asks how I am. “Fine”, I answer.

I’m pretty good at diagnostics. Spotted ex number two’s angina while the GP was dishing out indigestion mixture. Diagnosed daughter’s pregnancy when she thought she’d got a tummy bug. Even had a bash at Him Indoors last night.

He wasn’t overjoyed at being told he showing all the signs of the menopause. It’s all down to hospital dramas of course. I cut my teeth (the second ones) on “Dr Kildare” and “Emergency Ward 10”. These days it’s “Holby” and “Casualty”. Reckon I’m just about knowledgeable enough to carry out a spleen removal, I’ve seen that many.

Unlike Him Indoors, who eats dinner with his eyes closed every Tuesday, I lap it up. Not literally. But if you ever need a spleen removed and can’t be bothered to join the waiting list, feel free to pop round. I’ll sharpen the carving knife in anticipation.

But what about this new medi-soap “Casualty 1909”? I tuned in (BBC1, 9pm) on Sunday thinking it was some sort of “Holby” spin-off, only to discover it was more gruesome than “Chainsaw Massacre”. Those were the days, a drop of anaesthetic soon sorted the men from the boys. And that was just the doctors injecting it.

Medicine in the early part of the last century was a bit of a hit-and-miss affair. Anaesthetics were in their infancy and you bit on a nurse as you had your arm sewn up. If the surgeons didn’t manage to kill you, you could almost guarantee the infections would. Bit like MRSA today then.

But thank God for the NHS is what I say. At least we’ve got someone to sue if things go awry. Pre-free health care you took what was coming and paid handsomely for it.

Mother-in-law regales me with the tale of her trip to Blackpool when she and her brothers were bairns.

She fell and hurt herself and had to be taken to the local surgery. The doctor charged her mum five shillings for the bandage and expertise. That was the end of the trip — five bob was the family’s spending money so they had to go home. Uncle Duncan has still not forgiven her for missing a ride on the merry-go-round.

But I digress, if you missed “Casualty 1909” you must tune in on Sunday. Just make sure you’ve finished your roast beef first.