Friday, March 31, 2006
Friday's Fascinating Fact
Men who live in the United Kingdom and share the same surname have a 1:4 chance of being blood relatives.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Between The Acts…
I am uncertain as to where I originally discovered this lovely piece of prose. It was certainly many years ago. I have a flickering memory of it possibly being engraved onto a lectern, or a prayer stool or some such piece of wooden furniture in a small country church somewhere in England. I have been unable to find out who wrote it. However, whatever its origins, it remains a beautiful piece of thought-provoking work. I think the words are worth remembering when it comes to personal times of trial:
There are intervals in Life. The show can’t run non-stop. In between the acts there comes a pause. The curtain drops. Circumstances take a hand and something -unforeseen - comes along and breaks the pattern of the old routine. Illness, upheavals or a cruel turn of fate – call a halt and there is nothing you can do but wait.
While you’re waiting, learn the grace of faith and fortitude – as your life is being changed and problems reviewed. Intervals there have to be; accept them. Face the facts. Wisely use the quiet times that come between the Acts.
Author unknown.
There are intervals in Life. The show can’t run non-stop. In between the acts there comes a pause. The curtain drops. Circumstances take a hand and something -unforeseen - comes along and breaks the pattern of the old routine. Illness, upheavals or a cruel turn of fate – call a halt and there is nothing you can do but wait.
While you’re waiting, learn the grace of faith and fortitude – as your life is being changed and problems reviewed. Intervals there have to be; accept them. Face the facts. Wisely use the quiet times that come between the Acts.
Author unknown.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Rugby – A Game for Gentlemen?
Always thought of as the superior game, being traditionally played by the public and selective grammar schools, the game of rugby is clearly undergoing a metamorphosis.
Anyone watching the Jonathon Ross programme on Friday night would have seen him interview a certain member of the Welsh rugby team. Evidently, that player’s pre-match preparation lasts for about two hours and involves a bath, shaving the legs, the application of fake tan and the careful waxing of the hair until it stands upright like a spiky hedgehog.
For anyone who missed the programme, I am not speaking of a member of the ladies Welsh rugby team.
The Welsh novelist and dramatist, Gwyn Thomas (1913 – 1981), said in the introduction to his play Jackie the Jumper (1962):
‘I wanted a play that would paint the full face of sensuality, rebellion and revivalism. In South Wales these three phenomena have played second fiddle only to Rugby Union which is a distillation of all three.’
Well, from the interview on Friday night it certainly looks as though the Welsh are maintaining the tradition of sensuality in Welsh rugby. As an ex- prop forward for my grammar school and medical school rugby teams, all I can say is ‘my, how things change!’
Anyone watching the Jonathon Ross programme on Friday night would have seen him interview a certain member of the Welsh rugby team. Evidently, that player’s pre-match preparation lasts for about two hours and involves a bath, shaving the legs, the application of fake tan and the careful waxing of the hair until it stands upright like a spiky hedgehog.
For anyone who missed the programme, I am not speaking of a member of the ladies Welsh rugby team.
The Welsh novelist and dramatist, Gwyn Thomas (1913 – 1981), said in the introduction to his play Jackie the Jumper (1962):
‘I wanted a play that would paint the full face of sensuality, rebellion and revivalism. In South Wales these three phenomena have played second fiddle only to Rugby Union which is a distillation of all three.’
Well, from the interview on Friday night it certainly looks as though the Welsh are maintaining the tradition of sensuality in Welsh rugby. As an ex- prop forward for my grammar school and medical school rugby teams, all I can say is ‘my, how things change!’
Saturday, March 25, 2006
Word of the Week – Megalotic
The more I live, the more I learn;
The more I learn, the more I realise the less I know.
That quote has been a favourite of mine for many years. Today, it is most apt. Firstly, because I have never found out who originally said it. (If you should know, then please tell me.) Secondly, because the precise meaning of today’s chosen word has almost eluded me.
I first came across the word ‘megalotic’ in an article by Mandrake in The Sunday Telegraph (5th March 2006). It read:
“…the BBC has picked its megalotic former political editor Andrew Marr to front its coverage of the Queen's 80th birthday celebrations next month.”
My immediate thought was along the lines of how unkind it was for Mandrake to publicly refer to Marr’s prominent facial features. Then, certain areas of higher intellect kicked in and started to question such an assumption. I mentally eliminated ears and nose from the meaning of lotic; the Latin and Greek origins of these words are different. So, what did he mean?
Cue the New Oxford Dictionary of English. ‘Megalotic’ wasn’t listed in there. Out came the blockbuster, the twenty volumes of The Oxford English Dictionary (OED). That, too, failed to deliver.
Oh well, there is always the internet. That has the answer to everything. Or so I thought. I entered the word ‘Megalotic’ into the Google search box and waited. Up came five pages of sites wherein the word was featured. However, all but two were in Japanese! The only piece of English within them was reference to ‘megalotic messiah’.
The two English sites were not very helpful either. The first gave reference to the Western Harvest Mouse, known scientifically as Reithrodontomys megalotis. This was in an article about a Government sponsored, military testing site in Idaho, USA. The second site was a direct reference to Mandrake’s article in The Sunday Telegraph.
I had gone full-circle.
Breaking the word down, one is left with mega and lotic. Mega is Greek, meaning ‘great’. Lotic derives from Latin, lotus, meaning ‘washing’. The OED defines lotic as an ecological term meaning ‘of fresh-water organisms or habitats, situated in rapidly moving water.’ Ecology is, of course, that branch of science relating to the study of how different organisms relate to, and interact with, each other.
So, finally, I think I am getting near to an understanding of the meaning of the word ‘megalotic’; at least in terms of Andrew Marr. He was, of course, at one time the BBC’s Political Editor. Most recently, he has been holding his own Sunday morning guest show, having assumed David Frost’s crown. In the Sunday Telegraph article, he is reported to have dislodged David Dimbleby from the important post for reporting major Royal events. I guess that Mandrake is therefore using the term ‘megalotic’ to describe Marr as a ‘major organism’ which moves in the ‘rapid waters’ of political and social life.
An interesting word and an even more interesting application. It certainly gave me food for thought. If anyone has additional comments, please feel free to add to this scholastic debate!
The more I learn, the more I realise the less I know.
That quote has been a favourite of mine for many years. Today, it is most apt. Firstly, because I have never found out who originally said it. (If you should know, then please tell me.) Secondly, because the precise meaning of today’s chosen word has almost eluded me.
I first came across the word ‘megalotic’ in an article by Mandrake in The Sunday Telegraph (5th March 2006). It read:
“…the BBC has picked its megalotic former political editor Andrew Marr to front its coverage of the Queen's 80th birthday celebrations next month.”
My immediate thought was along the lines of how unkind it was for Mandrake to publicly refer to Marr’s prominent facial features. Then, certain areas of higher intellect kicked in and started to question such an assumption. I mentally eliminated ears and nose from the meaning of lotic; the Latin and Greek origins of these words are different. So, what did he mean?
Cue the New Oxford Dictionary of English. ‘Megalotic’ wasn’t listed in there. Out came the blockbuster, the twenty volumes of The Oxford English Dictionary (OED). That, too, failed to deliver.
Oh well, there is always the internet. That has the answer to everything. Or so I thought. I entered the word ‘Megalotic’ into the Google search box and waited. Up came five pages of sites wherein the word was featured. However, all but two were in Japanese! The only piece of English within them was reference to ‘megalotic messiah’.
The two English sites were not very helpful either. The first gave reference to the Western Harvest Mouse, known scientifically as Reithrodontomys megalotis. This was in an article about a Government sponsored, military testing site in Idaho, USA. The second site was a direct reference to Mandrake’s article in The Sunday Telegraph.
I had gone full-circle.
Breaking the word down, one is left with mega and lotic. Mega is Greek, meaning ‘great’. Lotic derives from Latin, lotus, meaning ‘washing’. The OED defines lotic as an ecological term meaning ‘of fresh-water organisms or habitats, situated in rapidly moving water.’ Ecology is, of course, that branch of science relating to the study of how different organisms relate to, and interact with, each other.
So, finally, I think I am getting near to an understanding of the meaning of the word ‘megalotic’; at least in terms of Andrew Marr. He was, of course, at one time the BBC’s Political Editor. Most recently, he has been holding his own Sunday morning guest show, having assumed David Frost’s crown. In the Sunday Telegraph article, he is reported to have dislodged David Dimbleby from the important post for reporting major Royal events. I guess that Mandrake is therefore using the term ‘megalotic’ to describe Marr as a ‘major organism’ which moves in the ‘rapid waters’ of political and social life.
An interesting word and an even more interesting application. It certainly gave me food for thought. If anyone has additional comments, please feel free to add to this scholastic debate!
Thursday, March 23, 2006
In Pursuit of the Recently Departed
‘Funny things accidents - you never quite know when they are going to happen.’
Winnie the Pooh
A. A. Milne
Monday afternoon, 3.50 p.m. to be precise, and I have a sixty mile round trip to make, all because a dead body went walkabouts.
She didn’t really go walkabouts and it wasn’t truly her fault. It couldn’t be as she was dead, in which case I don’t suppose she had much say in the matter. However, at times like this, it always seems that the recently deceased are having their final revenge on the physician who latterly attended them in life. It is as if they are saying, in the style of Laurel and Hardy, ‘well, this is a fine mess you have got me into, so now I am going to make life just that little bit harder for you.’
I can tell that you are probably having difficulty following this, so I will endeavour to explain.
I have the privilege of practising medicine within a rural environment. That has the advantage of enabling one to have an attractive lifestyle whilst avoiding the socio-economic problems that my inner city colleagues have. However, one of the disadvantages is that it is a long way to the major towns and cities. Most of the time, that is of no importance. The local market town provides for most everyday needs.
Like funeral directors, for example.
This usually makes providing the dead with the various documentation required for the next part of their voyage of discovery, a simple process. The patient dies (as they sometimes ungratefully do), the doctor takes five minutes (between treating Bessie Smith’s varicose veins and collecting his dry cleaning) to pop up the road to Messers Ivor Grave & Sons to sign on a few dotted lines, leaves a message for one of the partners in a neighbouring practice (who will nip in, make sure that the aforementioned patient is not playing sham and really has decided to check out, and sign the second part of the cremation form) and still has enough time to collect a brace of pheasants (which the butcher has kindly plucked and disembowelled) before arriving back in the surgery for the afternoon sore throat and aching back parade.
However, just every so often, one finds an awkward patient who, having been born in the market town, attended the local school, married in the parish church, worked all her life in the local library, shopped at the Corner Shop, shunned holidays and finally ended her days, at the age of 96 years, in the departure lounge of the local residential home, suddenly decides that Messers Ivor Grave & Sons is not the tour operator of choice for the next leg of her journey. No, she wants excitement, the smell of sea air and the thrill of a weekend’s break in the seaside resort thirty miles away.
The first one knows of this late burst of wanderlust is a message during the second surgery of Monday morning. A little pop-up appears on the computer screen, announcing “you have mail.” Unprepared for the message contained therein, one eagerly opens it as it provides a welcomed distraction from Mr Heartsink’s meaningless waffle about the state of his bowels. After all, he cannot see the screen and will just think that one is diligently recording every detail of his recalcitrant plumbing.
‘Mrs Stayfast died on Friday afternoon. They need the death certificate today and she is for cremation.’
Not a problem, you think. She had a stroke one week ago and developed bronchopneumonia four days later. Simple and tidy; coroner doesn’t need informing, paperwork straightforward and a spot of “ash cash” into the bargain.
Another pop-up and another e-mail:
‘She is at Diggit & Furnace Funeral Parlour in Great Grimesthorpe By-the-Sea.’
All hopes of a quick resolution to that task immediately disappear. Grimesthorpe is thirty miles away and I have no idea where to find Diggit & Furnace. There should be a rule against poaching bodies away from their home towns, even if it is at the family’s request. It is most inconvenient.
Thus it was, at 3.50pm, that I found myself in the surgery car park entering the address of Diggit & Furnace into the Land Rover’s satellite navigation system. ‘Fast Route…’ Yes, that will do nicely. Usually, I would take a leisurely drive across country. However, a quick flit down the dual carriageways will suffice for this trip; longer in miles but much quicker.
Five miles later, I am sat at the back of a very long traffic jam, which is going nowhere. The only slip road on this stretch is behind me and my green, magnetic emergency beacon, which has in the past enabled me to worm my way through all sorts of jams in true ‘let me though I am a doctor’ style, is sitting in my garage back at home. The announcer on Classic FM rather too gleefully gives out the motoring report and I learn that three lorries and a car have become snugly acquainted with each other at the intersection ahead. I eye the embankment, for a brief moment wondering whether the 4x4 would get up it and whose field it was on the other side. However, I decide against such a bid for freedom, well knowing that dozens of fuming drivers would be willing me to fail. There is nothing for it but to sit it out and rue the fact that I didn’t take my accustomed meandering route across country. It is another fifty minutes of quiet reflection time before I resume my journey down the “Fast Route” to Great Grimesthorpe By-the-Sea. Winnie the Pooh was absolutely right about accidents.
Mrs Stayfast’s revenge didn’t end there. Diggit & Furnace are in the middle of a council estate, whose roads are subdivided by pedestrian walkways and bollards, presumably to deter joy riders. With difficulty, I navigate my way through the maze and finally arrive to find, much to my relief, that a young employee has stayed behind to study for his NVQ in shroud-folding. He directs me to the refrigerators and then abandons me.
The refrigerator is a double-fronted, three-tiered one. Labels on the door announce the identities of the occupants, rather like the communal front door to an apartment block; only here you don’t expect the occupants to answer the doorbell – if there was one. True to form, Mrs Stayfast has seized the top bunk, which is conveniently situated about four feet above my head. The trainee shroud-folder is nowhere in sight. In one corner there is a mechanical lifting trolley, which looks far too complicated for my liking and prompts nightmarish images of spending the night on the floor with Mrs Stayfast for company. I decide to abandon any thoughts of getting her down to my level and opt for the mountain-goat approach. Really, it is just like climbing the parallel bars in my old school’s gymnasium, only a little colder; one step, two steps, pull-up with the biceps and there I am, squatting next to Mrs Stayfast. A one-handed uncovering (the other is firmly holding on to the freezer unit) and I have positive identification. Pupils fixed and dilated, no pulse, no heart sounds; job done.
Back at ground level, I ensure the refrigerator is fastened (just in case she gets wanderlust again), and go off in search of the junior pickler. I find him in the office, chewing his fingernails (always an unsavoury habit in an undertaker). Death certificate signed and Part One of the Cremation Form completed and I am on the road again. Only this time, I take the cross-country route home.
Mrs Stayfast’s revenge does not even end there, however. The following day, I have the task of trying to find a willing doctor to complete Part Two of the cremation forms. That used to be an easy affair. A simple task for a reasonable fee; everyone was happy to oblige. Then Shipman came along and overnight it got a whole lot more complex. So much so that, outside the market town (where the practices oblige each other as there is nowhere else to go) nobody wants to know. Five telephone calls later and I had been turned down by three practices for a variety of thinly veiled reasons. Not that they suspected me in anyway (honestly). It just wasn’t worth their effort and they were unlikely to need a favour returning. Finally, I managed to speak to someone who knew me from when we both sat on the Faculty Board for the Royal College of General Practitioners. Uttering comments like ‘for old times sake’ and ‘oh, ok, just this once,’ he acquiesced and I was finally free of Mrs Stayfast.
Looking at her thin set of notes, Mrs Stayfast probably took up more of my time after she checked out, than she had of any doctor throughout her entire ninety-six years whilst happily respiring.
So, if you are anticipating emigrating to the next world within the near future, please spare a thought for your poor GP and opt to support the local Funeral Director. If, by chance, you still decide to have one final holiday and go off elsewhere, then please use your new-found advantageous position in life (or should that be death?) and forewarn your doctor of any impending accidents on his route to find you.
That is, unless you also think that fifty minutes in a traffic jam is a fair punishment for him only allocating you the odd ten minutes here and there for the past decade or so. Sorry, if that is the way you felt, Mrs Stayfast. May you now rest in peace.
Winnie the Pooh
A. A. Milne
Monday afternoon, 3.50 p.m. to be precise, and I have a sixty mile round trip to make, all because a dead body went walkabouts.
She didn’t really go walkabouts and it wasn’t truly her fault. It couldn’t be as she was dead, in which case I don’t suppose she had much say in the matter. However, at times like this, it always seems that the recently deceased are having their final revenge on the physician who latterly attended them in life. It is as if they are saying, in the style of Laurel and Hardy, ‘well, this is a fine mess you have got me into, so now I am going to make life just that little bit harder for you.’
I can tell that you are probably having difficulty following this, so I will endeavour to explain.
I have the privilege of practising medicine within a rural environment. That has the advantage of enabling one to have an attractive lifestyle whilst avoiding the socio-economic problems that my inner city colleagues have. However, one of the disadvantages is that it is a long way to the major towns and cities. Most of the time, that is of no importance. The local market town provides for most everyday needs.
Like funeral directors, for example.
This usually makes providing the dead with the various documentation required for the next part of their voyage of discovery, a simple process. The patient dies (as they sometimes ungratefully do), the doctor takes five minutes (between treating Bessie Smith’s varicose veins and collecting his dry cleaning) to pop up the road to Messers Ivor Grave & Sons to sign on a few dotted lines, leaves a message for one of the partners in a neighbouring practice (who will nip in, make sure that the aforementioned patient is not playing sham and really has decided to check out, and sign the second part of the cremation form) and still has enough time to collect a brace of pheasants (which the butcher has kindly plucked and disembowelled) before arriving back in the surgery for the afternoon sore throat and aching back parade.
However, just every so often, one finds an awkward patient who, having been born in the market town, attended the local school, married in the parish church, worked all her life in the local library, shopped at the Corner Shop, shunned holidays and finally ended her days, at the age of 96 years, in the departure lounge of the local residential home, suddenly decides that Messers Ivor Grave & Sons is not the tour operator of choice for the next leg of her journey. No, she wants excitement, the smell of sea air and the thrill of a weekend’s break in the seaside resort thirty miles away.
The first one knows of this late burst of wanderlust is a message during the second surgery of Monday morning. A little pop-up appears on the computer screen, announcing “you have mail.” Unprepared for the message contained therein, one eagerly opens it as it provides a welcomed distraction from Mr Heartsink’s meaningless waffle about the state of his bowels. After all, he cannot see the screen and will just think that one is diligently recording every detail of his recalcitrant plumbing.
‘Mrs Stayfast died on Friday afternoon. They need the death certificate today and she is for cremation.’
Not a problem, you think. She had a stroke one week ago and developed bronchopneumonia four days later. Simple and tidy; coroner doesn’t need informing, paperwork straightforward and a spot of “ash cash” into the bargain.
Another pop-up and another e-mail:
‘She is at Diggit & Furnace Funeral Parlour in Great Grimesthorpe By-the-Sea.’
All hopes of a quick resolution to that task immediately disappear. Grimesthorpe is thirty miles away and I have no idea where to find Diggit & Furnace. There should be a rule against poaching bodies away from their home towns, even if it is at the family’s request. It is most inconvenient.
Thus it was, at 3.50pm, that I found myself in the surgery car park entering the address of Diggit & Furnace into the Land Rover’s satellite navigation system. ‘Fast Route…’ Yes, that will do nicely. Usually, I would take a leisurely drive across country. However, a quick flit down the dual carriageways will suffice for this trip; longer in miles but much quicker.
Five miles later, I am sat at the back of a very long traffic jam, which is going nowhere. The only slip road on this stretch is behind me and my green, magnetic emergency beacon, which has in the past enabled me to worm my way through all sorts of jams in true ‘let me though I am a doctor’ style, is sitting in my garage back at home. The announcer on Classic FM rather too gleefully gives out the motoring report and I learn that three lorries and a car have become snugly acquainted with each other at the intersection ahead. I eye the embankment, for a brief moment wondering whether the 4x4 would get up it and whose field it was on the other side. However, I decide against such a bid for freedom, well knowing that dozens of fuming drivers would be willing me to fail. There is nothing for it but to sit it out and rue the fact that I didn’t take my accustomed meandering route across country. It is another fifty minutes of quiet reflection time before I resume my journey down the “Fast Route” to Great Grimesthorpe By-the-Sea. Winnie the Pooh was absolutely right about accidents.
Mrs Stayfast’s revenge didn’t end there. Diggit & Furnace are in the middle of a council estate, whose roads are subdivided by pedestrian walkways and bollards, presumably to deter joy riders. With difficulty, I navigate my way through the maze and finally arrive to find, much to my relief, that a young employee has stayed behind to study for his NVQ in shroud-folding. He directs me to the refrigerators and then abandons me.
The refrigerator is a double-fronted, three-tiered one. Labels on the door announce the identities of the occupants, rather like the communal front door to an apartment block; only here you don’t expect the occupants to answer the doorbell – if there was one. True to form, Mrs Stayfast has seized the top bunk, which is conveniently situated about four feet above my head. The trainee shroud-folder is nowhere in sight. In one corner there is a mechanical lifting trolley, which looks far too complicated for my liking and prompts nightmarish images of spending the night on the floor with Mrs Stayfast for company. I decide to abandon any thoughts of getting her down to my level and opt for the mountain-goat approach. Really, it is just like climbing the parallel bars in my old school’s gymnasium, only a little colder; one step, two steps, pull-up with the biceps and there I am, squatting next to Mrs Stayfast. A one-handed uncovering (the other is firmly holding on to the freezer unit) and I have positive identification. Pupils fixed and dilated, no pulse, no heart sounds; job done.
Back at ground level, I ensure the refrigerator is fastened (just in case she gets wanderlust again), and go off in search of the junior pickler. I find him in the office, chewing his fingernails (always an unsavoury habit in an undertaker). Death certificate signed and Part One of the Cremation Form completed and I am on the road again. Only this time, I take the cross-country route home.
Mrs Stayfast’s revenge does not even end there, however. The following day, I have the task of trying to find a willing doctor to complete Part Two of the cremation forms. That used to be an easy affair. A simple task for a reasonable fee; everyone was happy to oblige. Then Shipman came along and overnight it got a whole lot more complex. So much so that, outside the market town (where the practices oblige each other as there is nowhere else to go) nobody wants to know. Five telephone calls later and I had been turned down by three practices for a variety of thinly veiled reasons. Not that they suspected me in anyway (honestly). It just wasn’t worth their effort and they were unlikely to need a favour returning. Finally, I managed to speak to someone who knew me from when we both sat on the Faculty Board for the Royal College of General Practitioners. Uttering comments like ‘for old times sake’ and ‘oh, ok, just this once,’ he acquiesced and I was finally free of Mrs Stayfast.
Looking at her thin set of notes, Mrs Stayfast probably took up more of my time after she checked out, than she had of any doctor throughout her entire ninety-six years whilst happily respiring.
So, if you are anticipating emigrating to the next world within the near future, please spare a thought for your poor GP and opt to support the local Funeral Director. If, by chance, you still decide to have one final holiday and go off elsewhere, then please use your new-found advantageous position in life (or should that be death?) and forewarn your doctor of any impending accidents on his route to find you.
That is, unless you also think that fifty minutes in a traffic jam is a fair punishment for him only allocating you the odd ten minutes here and there for the past decade or so. Sorry, if that is the way you felt, Mrs Stayfast. May you now rest in peace.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
A Bath B4 Eating
Having had the privilege of a classical education at a selective grammar school, I am one of those unusual people who have fond memories of Latin classes. It is true that I have since forgotten much, which, in the big scheme of the language, probably doesn’t leave a lot. However, even now, I often find myself hovering in front of a Latin inscription on a tomb-stone or memorial, struggling to make some sense of it just for the fun of doing so. If the same had been written in English, then I might have simply cast a cursory glance and moved on.
Sad, as many may think me to be, I still treasure copies of Kennedy’s Revised Latin Primer and Wormald & Blandford’s Path to Latin, Vols. 1 & 2. Indeed, I have them beside me as I write. They are a little like a literary security blanket, forming a psychological link to those halcyon days of school life.
I was therefore delighted to come across an article in The Daily Telegraph News Review (Saturday, March 4th, 2006) entitled Rapping with Miss Ho-Jo. The reporter, Sam Leith, obviously had a similar scholastic background to my own. As a result, he managed to bring joyous memories flooding back as I read his article. The article is one of comparison between our experiences of learning Latin and the way it is currently being taught at an inner London comprehensive school.
The teacher, Miss Eugenie Howard-Johnston (hence Miss Ho-Jo) teaches a Latin class twice a week after school hours. The remarkable thing is that the class is voluntary and she gets a regular attendance of twenty seven pupils. Her skill is bringing Latin into the modern age. For example, she teaches the girls how to rap in Latin. How things change!
The piece which really brought my own experiences back to life was a reminder of the way to run through second-declension nouns without a moment’s thought: ‘Blumblumblibloblo, Blablablorumblisblis.’ Oh, the joys! (sic). Latin for me will always be the language which, to quote Horace, “delectando pariterque monendo,” delights while at the same time instructs.
What of the strange title to this piece? Well, that is a reference to the aforementioned text, Path to Latin which, in true schoolboy fashion, usually had the cover title doctored so that it read A Bath B4 Eating. Such little wits, weren’t we?
Sad, as many may think me to be, I still treasure copies of Kennedy’s Revised Latin Primer and Wormald & Blandford’s Path to Latin, Vols. 1 & 2. Indeed, I have them beside me as I write. They are a little like a literary security blanket, forming a psychological link to those halcyon days of school life.
I was therefore delighted to come across an article in The Daily Telegraph News Review (Saturday, March 4th, 2006) entitled Rapping with Miss Ho-Jo. The reporter, Sam Leith, obviously had a similar scholastic background to my own. As a result, he managed to bring joyous memories flooding back as I read his article. The article is one of comparison between our experiences of learning Latin and the way it is currently being taught at an inner London comprehensive school.
The teacher, Miss Eugenie Howard-Johnston (hence Miss Ho-Jo) teaches a Latin class twice a week after school hours. The remarkable thing is that the class is voluntary and she gets a regular attendance of twenty seven pupils. Her skill is bringing Latin into the modern age. For example, she teaches the girls how to rap in Latin. How things change!
The piece which really brought my own experiences back to life was a reminder of the way to run through second-declension nouns without a moment’s thought: ‘Blumblumblibloblo, Blablablorumblisblis.’ Oh, the joys! (sic). Latin for me will always be the language which, to quote Horace, “delectando pariterque monendo,” delights while at the same time instructs.
What of the strange title to this piece? Well, that is a reference to the aforementioned text, Path to Latin which, in true schoolboy fashion, usually had the cover title doctored so that it read A Bath B4 Eating. Such little wits, weren’t we?
Monday, March 20, 2006
Ring of Confidence
‘Doctor, before you go, I have one last problem if you don’t mind. It’s rather embarrassing and I don’t really like to mention it.’
I smiled at Molly, a pleasant octogenarian lady, and gently persuaded her to continue.
‘Well, it’s my piles,’ she said with a slight grimace. ‘They’ve been ever so troublesome recently. I managed to find some of that cream you gave me a few years ago, but it stings something awful. It never used to; I think it must have gone out of date.’
I picked up a tube from her bedside table and Molly confirmed that it was what she had been using.
‘Yes, Molly, it is rather out of date. I’ll prescribe you a new tube which will be fine.’
As I reached for a prescription pad, I put the tube of a well known brand of spearmint toothpaste in my bag for later disposal. I hadn’t the heart to tell her the truth!
(First published in GP Magazine, 6th January 2006. The name of the patient has been changed.)
I smiled at Molly, a pleasant octogenarian lady, and gently persuaded her to continue.
‘Well, it’s my piles,’ she said with a slight grimace. ‘They’ve been ever so troublesome recently. I managed to find some of that cream you gave me a few years ago, but it stings something awful. It never used to; I think it must have gone out of date.’
I picked up a tube from her bedside table and Molly confirmed that it was what she had been using.
‘Yes, Molly, it is rather out of date. I’ll prescribe you a new tube which will be fine.’
As I reached for a prescription pad, I put the tube of a well known brand of spearmint toothpaste in my bag for later disposal. I hadn’t the heart to tell her the truth!
(First published in GP Magazine, 6th January 2006. The name of the patient has been changed.)
Sunday, March 19, 2006
The Wit & Wisdom of Somerset Maugham
W. Somerset Maugham was an English playwright.
Born on the 25th January 1874 (making him an Aquarian), he qualified in medicine at St Thomas’s Hospital, London. However, with the success of his writing, he gave up medicine for a career as a novelist and playwright.
He died on the 16th December 1965.
He has many quotes attributed to him. The following are just a few of my favourites:
On Life:
It's a funny thing about life; if you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it.
You can do anything in this world if you are prepared to take the consequences.
I made up my mind long ago that life was too short to do anything for myself that I could pay others to do for me.
On Death:
Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it.
On Writing:
Writing is the supreme solace.
Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul.
It's very hard to be a gentleman and a writer.
The crown of literature is poetry.
When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for me, and it becomes part of me.
There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.
Born on the 25th January 1874 (making him an Aquarian), he qualified in medicine at St Thomas’s Hospital, London. However, with the success of his writing, he gave up medicine for a career as a novelist and playwright.
He died on the 16th December 1965.
He has many quotes attributed to him. The following are just a few of my favourites:
On Life:
It's a funny thing about life; if you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it.
You can do anything in this world if you are prepared to take the consequences.
I made up my mind long ago that life was too short to do anything for myself that I could pay others to do for me.
On Death:
Death is a very dull, dreary affair, and my advice to you is to have nothing whatsoever to do with it.
On Writing:
Writing is the supreme solace.
Every production of an artist should be the expression of an adventure of his soul.
It's very hard to be a gentleman and a writer.
The crown of literature is poetry.
When I read a book I seem to read it with my eyes only, but now and then I come across a passage, perhaps only a phrase, which has a meaning for me, and it becomes part of me.
There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Friday's Fascinating Facts
Having the job as carpenter to the British Library must be as daunting as being employed as the painter on the Forth Bridge.
The British Library is one of six copyright libraries to which publishers in the United Kingdom are required to send a copy of every new book. Each year it receives three million new books. Hence a requirement for twelve kilometres of new shelving per year. (Source: Observer).
It has been calculated that, if a person looked at five books per day (note that I wrote 'looked at', not 'read'), they would require a life-expectancy of at least 80,000 years to see the entire library.
Now, just where did I leave my bookmark...
The British Library is one of six copyright libraries to which publishers in the United Kingdom are required to send a copy of every new book. Each year it receives three million new books. Hence a requirement for twelve kilometres of new shelving per year. (Source: Observer).
It has been calculated that, if a person looked at five books per day (note that I wrote 'looked at', not 'read'), they would require a life-expectancy of at least 80,000 years to see the entire library.
Now, just where did I leave my bookmark...
Thursday, March 16, 2006
Reaching for the Stars
Although the subject is not widely recognised amongst serious scientific circles, I confess to having more than a passing interest in the subject of Astrology. Within the consulting room I often amuse myself by quietly guessing, from the various psychological clues put forward, the star sign of the patient sitting in front of me.
I was recently somewhat surprised when a patient made an appointment simply to request some of the Aquarius Cream I had previously prescribed for her. My mind instantly wandered off to the Zodiac. However, a quick check of her date of birth confirmed that she had been born in November, under the sign of Scorpio. Had she, I idly wondered, decided that she would prefer her birthday to be therapeutically moved to January?
However, a more serious check of her past prescriptions clarified everything and she happily left with a prescription for Aqueous Cream. My fleeting thought of a career change to some sort of Psychotherapeutic Astrologer dissolved almost as quickly as the thought had arisen.
I was recently somewhat surprised when a patient made an appointment simply to request some of the Aquarius Cream I had previously prescribed for her. My mind instantly wandered off to the Zodiac. However, a quick check of her date of birth confirmed that she had been born in November, under the sign of Scorpio. Had she, I idly wondered, decided that she would prefer her birthday to be therapeutically moved to January?
However, a more serious check of her past prescriptions clarified everything and she happily left with a prescription for Aqueous Cream. My fleeting thought of a career change to some sort of Psychotherapeutic Astrologer dissolved almost as quickly as the thought had arisen.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
The Bridport Prize 2006
Extract from the leaflet:
'The Bridport Prize is an annual international creative writing competition for poetry and short stories. The closing date for entries which may either be sent by post or online is 30th June. The Bridport Prize is one of the top prizes of its kind in terms of both prestige and prize money. It has been the first step in the careers of many established poets and novelists. The prize money for 2006 totals £14,000.'
www.bridportprize.org.uk
'The Bridport Prize is an annual international creative writing competition for poetry and short stories. The closing date for entries which may either be sent by post or online is 30th June. The Bridport Prize is one of the top prizes of its kind in terms of both prestige and prize money. It has been the first step in the careers of many established poets and novelists. The prize money for 2006 totals £14,000.'
www.bridportprize.org.uk
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