Apologies to regular readers. It may appear I have been off on one of my now legendary Woganesque holidays. Sadly nothing could be farther from the truth. If fact this little corner of Borsetshire has been a tad busy of late. And on top of that I am again helping to mould the mind of one of the generation of medics that are to come after me. (Well, hosting a final Year Med Student for a couple of weeks out in the real world anyhow.)
And yes, lately that real world has been a touch too real for my taste. Thing is, Clive Horrobin walks abroad. If you are thinking that is the sort of sentence that should only be uttered to the accompaniment of arch glances toward the door or window of the consulting room, and preferably a few ominous chords from the brass section, then you’d be right.
Poor Clive doesn’t really fit in. This gets him frustrated, and in turn the frustration makes him angry. When he gets angry he makes threats. Nasty, personal, “I’m gonna come round your house and kill all your pets” sort of threats. He does this to anyone who frustrates any of his natural desires, like the impulse to take lots and lots of stimulants, mind altering drugs, both illicit (a little coke to go with his “Coke”TM), and licit, (Booze, Major and Minor tranquilizers, antidepressants and monster dose hypnotics).
Because he has been frustrated in his desire for these basic commodities of everyday living he has threatened a few medics, rather more receptionists and a whole bunch of other quiet and law abiding citizens. In our brave new zero-tolerant world Clive is a “Violent Patient” a cachet his is happy to wear like a teen with a hoody and an ASBO. It makes him "Special".
So special we have to seem him in a secure room at the hospital, with uniformed security personnel standing by.
This last week it was my turn to play “Clarice Starling” and go see “Hannibal” in the maximum security wing that is the local A&E* broom cupboard. It got rather crowded what with Clive in his Hockey Mask and Pallet Trolley rig, two burly Boys in Blue, and yours truly cowering somewhere to the rear and close to the emergency exit.
And the reason for this little edifying Tableau Vivant?
Clive wanted to tear me off a strip and threaten to kill my cats because we hadn’t given him the four-times-normal dose of sleeping pills he needed to help him come down off his speed and coke and “Coke”TM. In doing this we are breaching his Human Rights. I endeavoured to point out from my commanding position at the back, that he had done a fair bit of Human Rights infringing of his own, having threatened to duff up several nurses, porters, hospital docs and a couple of my esteemed partners in the past week or so, but it cut no ice. “See I don’t care about them, it’s my rights I care about innit!” he reasoned. An argument I imagine he is not used to having challenged much.
Sadly for Clive it didn’t work this time for I am made of sterner stuff, at least from behind a phalanx of blue serge I am. Oh, and the cats are off to the cattery this week, for later on I am indeed awa’ for a long weekend north of the border.
And the timing of this little trip is of course entirely coincidental.
* American readers would know this as the ER Closet I imagine**.
**They would also need to subtract the mental image of guards with Marine Corps crewcuts and belts weighed down with Nightsticks, Mace and Firearms. That's just not the way we do things in dear old Blighty. Yet***.
***We get "Kev" and "Baz" in blue pullys, scratchy trousers and peaked caps. And I am eternally greatful to them both.