On Call : Dr. Daisy Dashwood writes........

"What sadistic being designed the BM monitors?" demanded Chuck.

We were gathered around Alphonse, our token elderly diabetic who had been residing with us in 'Arthur's Annexe', the wing where Dr. Flett's old crumbly heartsinks were rehoused annually by Social Services. The official pamphlet called it, "a caring respite ward where geriatric patients can be looked after when they need it most." Gordon had called it the Lobby of the Morgue until the staff heard him and he was banned from ever setting foot in the place again. Chuck and Amos were now testing their own names for it in the hope that they too would enjoy a similar fate. Old Alphonse's vascular system had long since cottoned onto to what the machine meant, and the sight of the measurement strips now sent him into a reflex peripheral vasoconstriction. Two nurses were now bent over him, one pushing on each side of the finger pulp, striving to get that precious drop of blood.

Alphonse, who was deaf as a post, had given up trying to converse with the Doric nurses and now took whatever they had to give him on the chin. "AYE WELL, " he shouted. "YE'LL BE TRYING THAT ONE AGAIN THEN?"

"Beep beep, beep beep." It was the cardiac arrest bleep. Everybody fell morbidly silent, curious to know if their patients were in with a chance of being the unfortunate arrestee. "Cardiac arrest, A and E."

Darren, poised, took off like a shot. Although he may not have known what to do when he got there, Darren did have the advantage of being undeniably fast. All those years of mis-spent youth in Manchester United FC had made him a nippy little thing and he could dodge the sick, the infirm and the WRVS trolley like nothing else. We relaxed and got back to the blood results.

Seconds later, Darren strolled back into the room.

"That was a quick arrest, Darren," said Mary. "Were you there in time for the precordial thump?"

"Nah," said Darren, "Some old codger fainted in the waiting room and a Nurse punched the arrest bleep."

"Ah, and so there were about 300 people gathered around him, approximately 200 of which were the general public and student nurses, 50 of which were nurses, 30 of which were receptionists, 15 of which were porters, 4 of which were anxious WRVS ladies trying to make a killing and one of which was a House Officer, trying to forge a path into the middle, with the only remaining venflon in A and E - grey, naturally - to repeatedly stab him under the watchful eyes of the 299." Amos ventured his professional and characteristically cynical opinion.

"Nah, a nurse splashed water in his face and he came round," said Darren, unfazed by the whole experience. The run had reminded him of his days on the Team and he was gearing up for a jog around Loch Ness that evening.

"Reminds me of when I was a student in Raigmore," said Chuck. "Someone began fitting in the WRVS coffee shop," ("I knew their drug-dealing ways would catch up with them sooner or later!" said Amos) "and all the nurses rushed to help and all the doctors carried on with their muffins."

"Ah, Raigmore," said Amos. "I remember a patient I used to have there. He was a feisty old geezer. Used to be an HGV driver. Unfortunately, he developed Narcolepsy, which soon put paid to that one."

"I once went to a Narcolepsy conference," said Chuck, perking up. "It was a rare event. They all had to take minutes as whenever anybody said anything interesting, they'd all get excited and then everyone would fall asleep for 5 minutes and they'd have to start all over again."

"Which would you rather have?" asked Poppy to Amos. "Narcolepsy or obesity?"

"Oh Narcolepsy, definitely," he said, smoothing down his bottle-green satin-effect chinos.

"Britain is a nation of breeders," remarked Chuck. "Not you of course, Amos. This is why all our patients have such wide pelvic brims. I sent home a man yesterday who could go into cruise control simply by relaxing his abdominal wall."

"Guess what, buds?!" said Dr. Berkeley, sticking his head around the door. "I've got a surprise for you!"

As Dr. Berkeley's last 'surprise' had been the evacuations of the only case of cholera in the developed world since the early 1900s, we all backed away hastily.

"Folks, meet Dr. Whou," cried Dr. Berkeley, conjuring our new Consultant into the room with a flourish of hand movements which can only develop from years of controlling sixteen feet of black rubber halfway up someone's backside.

In stepped a small, neat-looking gentleman. He wore a freshly-pressed pair of trousers, over which he was styling a crisp claret shirt. The effect was rounded off by a dark blue silk tie with the BMA logo on it.

"Neat tie!" said Amos, impressed.

Dr. Whou inclined his head in acknowledgement.

"Thank-you. I feel it shows my loyalty to the profession."

"Where did you get it?" persisted Amos.

Being in the presence of Consultants sometimes made him forget that he was now a Registrar and not a J-ho.

"Mail order," answered Dr. Whou. "BMA services have been very good to me over the years."

"Wow," said Amos.

"Now lads and ladettes," said Dr. Berkeley, "I want you to all be very nice to Dr. Whou. Remember, he is new here so play nicely with him."

"We'll make sure to let him have a turn in the sandpit," said Chuck innocently.

"Attaboy!" said Dr. Berkeley. Then, slapping Dr. Whou gamely on the back, "Go gettem, Tiger!"

Dr. Whou arched an eyebrow but recovered his composure nicely. He looked around at the room full of Junior staff and a harassed phlebotomist, as if trying to comprehend all our names. Unfortunately, we had all lost our Trust ID badges a week into the post and so were making do with the MPS free ones, which used an extremely small font and which were so silver and reflective that it was impossible to decipher who you were talking to without industrial-strength sunglasses. Besides, according to my badge I was Dr. Dishwood.

And then, he surprised us. A light flickered behind his eyes and he rapped out a series of questions.

"Who is with me today?" he asked quickly. "Do I have a JHO and an SHO?"

"Er, me," said Laurence.

"And me," mumbled Darren.

"Very good," said Dr. Whou. "We will be a good team." It was a statement, not a question. "I will be like a father to you and you will learn a lot from me."

"Er, yes," said Laurence, surprised.

"The force is strong in that one," said Chuck, in a deep and throaty voice.

Darren, who was too busy reading the Sun (page 3) had not been listening and Dr. Whou looked at him in a concerned, parental way.

"Dr. Stringfellow."

"Mmmm," said Darren, deeply engrossed in 'News in Briefs'.

"What is that you are reading."

"Er," said Darren, pausing, genuinely not sure what the right answer was here. "News in Briefs?"

"News in Briefs!" said Dr. Whou, his eyes lighting up still further. "I can see I am going to have a JHO who keeps on top of current affairs. We're going to get along just fine! Now, let's go and meet the patients."

Casting a last longing glance at 'Jo, 23, from Liverpool', Darren fell into line behind Laurence, who was walking carefully behind a fully galvanised Dr. Whou.

"Present……arms!" muttered Chuck.

"And off we go!" finished Amos.

Dr. Whou turned and inclined his head. "Goodbye, colleagues. See you later."

"I've got the problem page, I've got the problem page," Chuck was silently mouthing to Darren, waving it under his nose, just out of reach. Darren looked at his Sun, decided it wasn't worth losing his career over and trudged after the sprightly Dr. Whou, picking up the bloods folder as he went.

"I think the sandwich woman likes me," said Amos. "She gave me 4 sausages today instead of 3."

He looked over at the lady in question, a well-endowed wifie of indeterminate age, her wispy greying hair stuffed untidily under a white cap, and winked.

She, in turn, giggled and gave him a flirtatious schoolgirl wave.

"Hey!" said Darren, inidignantly. "I'm supposed to be the smooth one around here!"

"Sorry," said Amos unrepentantly, "But I am a Latino gigolo, remember. Got a reputation to protect."

He blew the sandwich lady a kiss.

"Reminds me of a woman I once knew," said Edward. "Jolly old soul. Used to go down the 'Merry Widow' with her on a Saturday night. Oh yes. What?"

"Was she your mother?" enquired Chuck.

"I should bloody well hope not!" exploded Edward. "The cheek of it. Charming my mother. What rot!"

"Was she a Nurse?" I asked.

Edward blushed and made a big show of studying his shoelaces. We could tell that he was not going to be forthcoming on this issue and so backed off, storing the information so that we could use it against him when he was weak.

"How they expect me to be a Registrar when I have to work with this computer, I don't know!" said Amos, slamming down his pen in disgust. "It's from the age where computers were
as big as houses. Hear that whirring noise?"

"Mr. Anderson breathing?" I said.

"That's my computer!" said Amos forcefully.

"Oh," said Mary.

"I reckon they dug it up," said Amos. "They must have found it when they were laying the foundations. There was a Neanderthal skull, some primitive tools and my computer. I tell you, that machine is powered by hamsters. It's one step up from the abacus."

"Oh not again!" said Darren in despair. "The phlebs haven't' bled my patient again."

"What's the reason this time?" asked Amos, always on the lookout for a sparring match with the multidisciplinary team.

"Nurses inform that it would be unwise to bleed this patient," read Darren.

"What!" exploded Amos. "Is he a balloon? Will he suddenly explode if we stick a needle in him?"

"I think I'm going to compile 'The Little Book of Phleb Excuses'," decided Mary.

"Tell me about it," said Gordon distractedly, rummaging through the 'Returned Chits' pile. "There's an 18 patient unavailable group and I can't believe they're all in the bath at the same time."

"Perhaps they're having an orgy?" suggested Poppy.

"Unlikely in this place," said Chuck, regretfully.

"Hey Guys!" said Amos, opening a letter. "I've got some news that will brighten your day. Now, you've all heard of the Olympics. Now…..here's AUDITfest!"

He spread his arms wide, as if conjuring something.

"What?!" said Chuck, distinctly unimpressed.

"AUDITfest!" said Amos. "All the Multidisciplinary team get together and present their audits and there's a prize for the best one."

I could see that far from curing his passion for compulsive auditing, this was going to add to the problem.

"I want you to all do an audit!" said Amos, obviously fired up by this news. "Mary, you go with Gordon. Janey, since you and Poppy are basically lesbian lovers anyway, you can go together. Daisy, seeing as you and John are the Dr. Fletts of the group, you can audit Osteoporosis together."

Amos can be so politically incorrect at times. We all hope that he never encounters any minority groups otherwise we might have to soldier on, minus a Registrar.

"Me and John?" I stammered.

"Yes. You. Osteoporosis," rapped back Amos. Rap, as in a short snappy comeback. Not as in singing a funky bass line whilst moonwalking backwards from the room. Although that would have been more amusing.

"Gosh," I said, whilst looking at John's feet.

"We should go to Records," he said, staring at my bleep.

"They play the 'Sound of Music' there," warned Laurence. "Take earmuffs."

"Yep," said Amos, stretching out in his Registrar Chair (he has a little sign with 'World's Best Registrar' on the back of it). "2 months of the 'Lonely Goatherd'. I think you're going to enjoy this audit."

"Please, not 2 months!" we begged simultaneously.

"Then win AUDITfest, children!" he snapped. "Once we win, we can stop. All that matters is that we beat the surgeons."

"And Obs and Gynae," put in Gordon helpfully.

"That's so obvious that I didn't have to say it," said Amos witheringly.

"What about Psychiatry?" I enquired.

"They wouldn't manage to get past the first patient without becoming embroiled in a tangled web of sex and lies and false hypertensive referrals," answered Amos.

Wow. Amos knew his stuff. Perhaps the way forward really was hospital medicine?

Rick walked in.

"Amos, you know that lady with the abdominal pain that I referred to you," he said.

"That old fake? Ah, I think a therapeutic trial of placebo is in order," said Amos, tapping his nose knowingly.

"Oh. Right," said Rick uncertainly.

"We should just try injecting more and more potassium into each bag and see what she makes of that!" suggested Amos.

"Uh, she might die?" ventured Rick.

"Well, I'm hoping that she might just get a serious burn," answered Amos. "That'd teach her to fake it!"

"What if it's genuine?" asked Rick.

"Yeah, right!" scoffed Amos.

We were at the weekly 'Postgraduate Education Meeting', a supposed forum where the learned of the Hospital would gather and learn much from the other specialities. In reality, the various departments pushed for the lunchtime slot so that they could give an hourly briefing of their vision for the future. Today, one of the surgeons was giving us 'A Brief History of the Royal Scottish Hospital with particular reference to the Orthopaedic Department', and half an hour into the talk, we had just traced it back to the foundation document of how the first patient to be admitted.

"And now for a short break!" announced Dr. Berkeley.

"Do you think they'll have Cornettos?" whispered Darren.

"I want you to hang onto your hats, crew!" he intoned. "I'm going to inform you of the social event of the year."

"It must be Auditfest!" whispered Amos, excitedly. "Remember, we're better than they are. They only know one antibiotic."

"He's so……..vocal!" said Mary, impressed.

"Unlike Dr. Park," said Chuck. "He reads things so literally."

"Yeah, but so does Inspector Gadget," reminded Amos. "You must stop the plot at the bank, stop. We think that Dr. Claw is behind it, stop. This message will self-destruct in 3 seconds, stop. Hmm, better read it again. You must stop……booooom!"

"It's time forrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr thhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Annual Hospital Baaaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllll!!!!!" intoned Dr. Berkeley, becoming so excited that he nearly fell over a nearby chair.

"Fall! Fall!" hissed Amos, from behind clenched teeth.

"Then you will be Consultant," whispered Mary excitedly.

"No," reminded Dr. Whou, equally quietly. "I shall be the Consultant. There was no room for another Consultant in the first place. It was only due to my superhuman scoping abilities that I was specially selected for the job."

"Oh," said everyone, impressed.

"Darn it!" said Amos.

"A Ball!" said Angie. "Time for everyone to look out their posh frocks."

"There's your chance, Darren," said Chuck, nudging him.

"Ah, I would," said Darren, playfully shoving him back. "But I wouldn't want to upstage you in that foxy little D and G number I know you're just dying to wear."

"Ouch," said Chuck.

"Oh, well, to be fair, we do, er, have an equal opportunities policy at the Royal Scottish Hospital," said Dr. Flett, coming to the rescue of any House Officer in distress. Sometimes I felt we should just get him a big blue siren to wear on his head and then he could just weave his way in and out of the beds in response to a distress call and sweet-talk Amos/Nurses/Relatives or whoever had us in a corner.

"Thank-you, Dr. Flett," said Chuck. "I shall wear my stockings with pride."

The thing about Chuck is that you never know whether he's being serious or not. He might even turn up to the event in a sheer silk sheath, just for the crack. Still, it would give the nurses something to gossip about at their handovers. I thought about the audit. It would be the first time John and I had been coerced into spending enforced time with each other. Although the sub-arctic temperatures of Records and 'Eidelweiss' were not the most romantic backdrop, I wondered whether it might be a match made in heaven. Either way, Amos would get his Audit. Rick was also up for the prize and as he was a walking encyclopaedia, so I privately doubted whether we would stand a chance.

"You never forget your first Registrar," said Amos.

As I trudged towards the basement, feeling the warmth drain out of me, I reflected that this was one area in which he was probably right.

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