Embarrassing bodies

Recently I have become addicted to Channel 4's Embarrassing Bodies. This is a medical show where three doctors take their "roadshow medical clinic" around the country and each week set up a tent in a different town. People with embarrassing medical problems then come to the clinic to explain their problems (usually accompanied by tears and an explanation of how the problem is ruining their life).  The problem is then examined (involving extreme close ups of the affected body part) and diagnosed.  Finally, it is usually fixed.  All of this in front of a film crew. 

This week's episode included a middle-aged man who began his clinic visit by telling the doctor "basically, I have a problem with my bum".  The problem was hemorrhoids and viewers were treated to a close-up of the area which, if I hadn't known better, I would have thought was a close up of a dead foetus coming out of an animal's hairy birth canal.  It turned out this gentleman had been living with what looked to be extremely painful hemorrhoids for about a year.  When asked why he hadn't been to the doctor previously, his response was that he found it too embarrassing talking to a doctor about his "bum".  He also explained that he didn't have the confidence to go out with women, because he didn't want them to see the area.

The fact that this show actually works never ceases to amaze me; without fail, every patient explains that they haven't previously seen a doctor about their problem due to their embarrassment.  And yet they're willing to show the same problem (in horrifying close-ups) to the entire nation.  

I am not sure whether the success of the program is a sad indictment on the lack of faith we have in the NHS or is instead a reflection of our bizarre celebrity culture. 

The Curse

If I was a believer in curses, I would think I'm the victim of one. At the very least, I seem to have had a run of very bad luck.

It all started with a weekend trip to Paris. This was my Christmas present to G and I had planned the weekend meticulously. I had booked the Eurostar to leave at 8 am on Saturday morning and return at 10 pm Sunday night. I had found a hotel recommended on lastminute.com to stay in and a restaurant for Saturday's dinner that was ranked on lastminute.com as the 7th best restaurant in Paris. As G and I hopped onto our Eurostar train to Paris, I was brimming with confidence that the weekend would be a complete success and the best Christmas present I had ever given G. Perhaps the bad luck was the universe giving me a bit of a kick for being so cocky.

The hotel was okay. Granted, it was in an area of Paris where wearing a bullet-proof vest might have been advisable but, given where we live in London, we could cope with that. Saturday was spent in the Louvre and wandering around Paris and we did have a lovely day. The trip started its decline when we took the hour-long journey to get to this highly recommended restaurant in the middle of nowhere. I am not sure who has been recommending this restaurant and giving it such positive reviews on trip advisor, but I rather suspect it may be the proprietor and his/her friends. When we arrived for Saturday dinner, the restaurant was half-empty. Those in it were solely from the silver-hair brigade. Nonetheless, having taken a one-hour metro journey to get there, and given all the positive reviews, we boldly explained to the waiter in pigeon French that we had a reservation for two and took our seats at our table.

For our entrees we each had the scallops in lobster mousse. At least I think the dish was described as containing "scallops". In fact, what was served to each of us was a cocktail dish containing one scallop on top of some mousse. Although small, this would have been fine had the mousse not been full of an unidentifiable mound of small chunks of something purple. When asked, we were told these chunks were bits of carrot marinated in balsamic vinegar. And yes, they were as unappetising as they sound.

The mains were nicer. I had the bouillabaisse which was lovely. G's meal was a steak, which was fine, but the accompaniment was an obviously split béarnaise sauce. The meal was also to come with vegetables but on bringing it out, the waiter dropped the vegetables on the floor and they weren't replaced. All up, it wasn't a successful evening.

The following day was spent wandering around the Marais, one of the few areas that isn't asleep on a Sunday in Paris.

Then it was time for our return Eurostar journey. Upon arriving at the terminal we discovered it was absolutely packed with people. It looked like a rock concert gone wrong, with angry looking old people pushing and shoving and shouting at others for queue jumping (even though there was no discernable queue - just a heaving mass of people pushing towards the information counter). Eventually we learned that the station had earlier been evacuated due to "left luggage" and that the three previous Eurostar trains due to carry 780 passengers each had been cancelled. The Eurostar trains were now running, but it was a first-come, first-serve as to which train any passenger could board. Hence the heaving mass of people from the three cancelled trains. After joining the mass and pushing our way to the front, we finally boarded a train.

About an hour-and-a-half into the journey, we realised something was seriously wrong when the train suddenly stopped and all lights cut out. For a little while, there were emergency lights in the train but before long, they cut out too. It was some time before we knew what was going on and why we were sitting in darkness.

The reactions of the passengers to the situation demonstrated the breadth of the human character. One passenger, an American, continued happily to have a long conference on his mobile phone with his son's school in Australia. We learned all about his son, Henry, and his behavioural problems. It seems that the father had recently suffered a divorce from Angela and Henry was suffering from the fallout. The conversation was peppered with a cringe-inducing mangling of the English language such as "I had a really good educational two-way commune with Angela…"; "we had a great partnering conversation"; "see her light, believe in her light, because she's a good egg". He was oblivious to all the passengers around him giggling in response to his unusual turns of phrase. Meanwhile, another passenger, a young English woman, telephoned her parents and said in a very dramatic voice: "mum, dad, I was meant to be home now but I'm not. instead I'm in a train where we've been plunged into darkness." She either then hung up or her telephone cut out.

After an hour of sitting in the dark train we were told that the train had lost power and a new train was on its way. We sat in the dark train for a couple of hours, waiting. The aircon didn't work and nor did the toilets. This meant that it was very hot and smelly in our carriage. Eventually, at 2.30 am or so, the new train arrived and the 780 of us were evacuated off our train, one-by-one, and onto the new one, using two metal ladders.  Finally, we arrived in St Pancras station but, given the hordes of people, it took some time to get out and get home, and we found ourselves rolling into bed around 5 am.

On Monday (the next day) I was off to Lincoln for work, so there was no sleep-in. Unfortunately, the fast trains to Lincoln had been cancelled and I found myself spending another 8 hours on various trains making the return trip to Lincoln.

I arrived home that night shattered but was up bright and early for work the next day at 6 am as I had an early morning meeting.

Tuesday night I returned home, exhausted and longing for bed. Sadly, only two hours after retiring to bed I found myself waking with a stomach bug and spent the night bent over the toilet bowl, vomiting. I went to work the next day (Wednesday) but felt dreadful. In my delirious, sleep-deprived state I convinced myself that someone had put a curse on me, and wondered whether it was my queue jumping (if it can be called that, given there was no queue) in Paris to get on a Eurostar home that was the cause of all my troubles.

I tentatively went home from work on Wednesday night, waiting for the next disaster to strike. Thankfully it didn't, and I had a wonderful night's sleep and woke this morning feeling on top of the world.

The silver lining to having a really crappy time is that when it stops, things feel marvellous. It's not taking much to make me happy today. Flushing a loo (and having it work), having artificial light and being able to keep my lunch down - all these things now feel magical and are making me smile.

pretentious restaurants

I saw a great article in the Times yesterday entitled "how to spot a pretentious restaurant". You can read it here.

I love so-called "poncey" food but I loathe pretentious restaurants. I find that I will have a better night at a restaurant with average food but excellent service than I will at a restaurant with good food but abysmal service. Which is perhaps why, unlike the rest of London, I hate the restaurant Hakkasan with a passion. Admittedly, my sole dining experience there was almost two years ago, but it left such a bad taste in my mouth (figuratively) that I have no desire to go back.

Hakkasan is a fusion Chinese restaurant and has held a Michelin star since 2003. My former employer decided it would be a good place to impress its new recruits (of whom I was then one) with a wine-and-dine extravaganza. There were about 30 of us who dined in an area screened off from the rest of the restaurant by decorative screens. We had an 8 course meal which was okay. To be honest, Chinese cuisine is never going to be one of my favourite cuisines. Perhaps that reveals my own philistine nature; however, I'd much rather have a good Vietnamese, Thai, French, Japanese or Italian meal any day. Apart from the fact that I'm not a big fan of Chinese food, I can't fault the food. But I can fault the service.

It started off with someone from the firm (who most likely had a title such as "business relations promotionalist") trying to take a photo of the group for the firm's internal publicity purposes. Photos at these sort of events seem mandatory, most likely so that they can be posted on the firm's website and the firm can pretend that its employees enjoy socialising with one another and do so voluntarily and frequently. Unfortunately, despite paying for 30 people to eat and drink as much as they could stomach, the firm's employee was quickly stopped from clicking her camera by an overly attentive waitress. The waitress rushed over with a distressed expression. "You can't take photos in Hakkasan - we usually have celebrities in here and so we don't allow photos". The fact we were screened off from the rest of the restaurant's patrons, who subsequently were assured of not being in the photograph, didn't seem to allow for an exception to this rule. None of us made a fuss, however, and the employee slipped her camera away, looking embarrassed. I think the atmosphere of pretentious restaurants, and the attitude of the staff, means that unless truly liquored up, polite people never complain as they are seemingly embarrassed or intimidated into silence.

Not being able to be in a photograph was, however, the least of my worries. The only way I could bear an evening of stilted and polite chitchat was to drink a lot of the very fine wine on offer. This of course meant I had quite early in the evening to inspect the facilities.

The ladies' and men's loos are (or at least were) in a corridor, behind two identical and unmarked wooden doors. Outside the doors is someone whose sole job seems to be to indicate to guests which door to enter. On the night I was at the restaurant, this important position was filled by a young woman who clearly wasn't born to work in the service industry. As I walked towards the doors she gave a dismissive flap of her hand in the general vicinity of both doors. I looked at each door in turn and, on realising there was no marker as to which was the men's and which was the ladies' loos, I asked the young woman if she could please tell me which to enter. Again, she mutely waved her hand. This hand wave was no better than the last. Her hand looked like a dead fishing, flopping about with its last bit of life, and did nothing to indicate which door I should walk through. Again I had to explain that I was terribly sorry but I had no idea which door she was indicating I should walk through - would she just tell me please where to go. Again, she uttered no word (aside from an exaggerated sigh) and did her fish-like hand wave. At this point, I snapped, and quietly but firmly told the woman that I was sorry but she would have to either make more pointed hand movements or simply tell me which toilet was the ladies'. She then barked "that one" back at me, finally pointing at one of the doors.

After all of that, not even the most sublime food could have won me over.

Thou shalt not stare

Since we moved into our current flat I have been catching the tube (rather than bus) to work. This has resulted in most trips to work being both unpleasant and uneventful. In the tube, you are packed so closely to the person next to you that there simply isn't room for anyone to move, let alone do anything bizarre or entertaining.

This morning I was really not looking forward to my journey in to work. Aside from dreading the tube journey, it was also snowing outside and I wasn't relishing the prospect of being snowed on during my walk to the tube station. Nonetheless, out I stomped, in my coat and rain jacket. Sure enough, the tube journey was uneventful. The only thing differentiating it from any other tube journey was that the snow seemed to result in more people catching the tube than usual, and so it was even more tightly rammed than expected. Nonetheless, so far, so normal.

Then I got out at my tube station, Holborn. I joined the throng of the working crowd leaving the station and stomping off to their respective places of work. As I walked along the busy pavement, there was a fellow next to me on a bike. He was cycling at the speed I was walking, so I didn't really pay much attention to the fact he was on the pavement rather than the road. Unfortunately for the cyclist, another pedestrian took great umbrage at this fact, shouting at him "walk it, why don't you" to which the cyclist responded sarcastically "yes, because I'm going so fast I'm a danger". The rule "thou shalt not talk to strangers" had been broken, which was surprising but not shocking.

The two men were unremarkable looking. The cyclist was probably in his 40s, wearing a suit and rain jacket and with a helmet on his head. The other fellow was probably in his 50s, slightly tubby and wearing a suit, coat, hat and carrying a large umbrella with a curved wooden handle. Both appeared to be on their way to work.

Then, as I kept walking, pretending to ignore the two men, the pedestrian lurched towards the cyclist. With an agility that belied his age and girth, he nimbly held the pointy end of his umbrella and, like a masterful fencing pro, thrust the curved wooden handle into the spokes of the cyclist's bicycle, effectively brining the bicycle to an immediate and complete stop. The cyclist admittedly was going at such a slow speed, he didn't come off the bike, but instead stopped and simply shouted "what the hell are you doing?". A short verbal argument ensued. Meanwhile, most of us who had been walking nearby were so shocked by the incident we all stopped and blatantly violated the "thou shalt not stare" rule of English conduct. I stood there staring for some time, watching the argument unravel and waiting for what seemed an inevitable punch-up. When it didn’t happen, I went on my way. So did most of the other spectators.

I know cyclists are annoying, but it's rare to see one attacked. Especially when the cyclist in question is absent the usual factor that provokes pedestrians to fits of range: the wearing of a full-body lycra suit. And it seems even more unlikely that the attacker will be a podgy, middle-aged man in a suit at a time in the morning when most of us are still waiting for the caffeine to hit.

At least for once my journey to work wasn't boring.

A ranty blog about healthcare (best to honestly let you know what you're in for)

The English are very proud of their medical system. When the Republicans (in response to Obama's health plans) dared to criticise the British system recently, it provoked a flood of outrage in the press, as Brits rose to defend their health system. Even Gordon Brown twittered in outrage.
The health system in Britain is, of course, free. But as with most things, you get what you pay for.

I'm all for free healthcare for those who otherwise couldn't afford it. But here, even those who can afford it are frequently forced to rely on the NHS. I have private health insurance in the UK. But no private health insurance covers the cost of private GPs, meaning I usually have to see an NHS GP. While I can pay the princely £60 for a consultation with a private GP, if I then get a prescription from said private GP, I have to pay the full price of the prescription (rather than the heavily subsidised price I would pay if I were prescribed the same drug by an NHS GP). The end result is that it's not affordable for me to go to a private GP. Instead I am stuck with my local GP.

To make matters worse, I don't even have free choice over my GP. I have to use one in my catchment area. My local GP clinic is plastered with signs warning patients not to abuse doctors. The receptionists are behind protective plexiglass, to prevent assaults from patients. It's just your standard NHS clinic in an area where, amongst the nice flats, you have a lot of not-very-nice housing estates.

I may be biased, but I rather like the Australian system, which seems to offer the best of both worlds: free healthcare for those who can't afford to pay for it while those who can afford private healthcare are (through tax penalties) effectively forced to go private. But even those of us who have private healthcare do not find ourselves in an exclusively private system: the government still subsidises medicines (regardless of who's prescribed them) and will contribute towards the cost of you seeing a non-bulk billing (ie private) GP.

So, why the rant about healthcare? Because I'm ill. Now, I admit that I'm not ill with anything serious (I hope), but rather am finding this winter that my body has been continually under attack from every cold or flu bug that happens to come within a 1 mile radius of me. Indeed, sometimes I am not even aware of having been exposed to the enemy bug before I find myself doubled over, coughing, spluttering and with a fever. I've had enough.

The thought, however, of going into my (no doubt) germ-infested local NHS clinic, and having to take a good couple of hours (including travel time) out of a work day to do so, fills me with horror. Thankfully, because this feeling is not uncommon, work provides a private GP who comes to the office once a month. Work pays the cost of the consultation and I avoid the time, effort and pain of seeing my local GP.

So, I make an appointment and at the designated time wander into the first aid room. I am coughing and spluttering as I sit in the chair opposite the man wearing a reassuringly conservative white coat.

"Hmmm, that's a nasty cold you have there", he says.

"yes, that's why I'm here, actually. Since about August of last year I've been constantly sick. One cold or flu after another."

"I'm interested to know what you think I can do about that" he replies, looking genuinely perplexed.

I explain that I'm concerned about the possibility I have something fundamentally wrong with me; that there's some constitutional problem giving rise to my plague of ill health.

"well, how would I know if there's something wrong with you?!" he responds. "I could do some tests, but I don't think it's worth it. It doesn't sound like you're dying. You're probably just unlucky. And I hear an accent - are you an Antipodean?"

"yes, Australian".

"Ah, that's probably it then. You're just not used to these winters".

"I have been here for 3 and a half years now ..."

"Oh, well I don't know then".

At that point I started to look around the room, almost expecting to see some hidden cameras, and for someone to leap out from the curtains and proclaim the entire situation some bizarre joke. But no, there was nothing. I just left the room, coughing, and went back to my desk.

As I said earlier, sometimes you really do get what you pay for.

Postscript: After reading this blog, G has sent me a link to what he says is a very good article about the benefits of the Australian system (right at the end of the article, apparently). I haven't read it yet, but post it here confident that a published article by someone in the New York Times will express the sentiment far better than I can.

cute indian monkey photos

Eye of the Tiger

G and I were remarkably lucky in India, avoiding all serious stomach bugs. Unfortunately, I was not so lucky in London. After (probably rather foolishly) deciding to have oysters out at dinner last Saturday night, I have been struck down all week with a pretty awful stomach bug. Hence the silence on the blogging front. But I'm back. And ready to finish the series of blog posts about India.

I left things with us sleeping our way to Bangalore. V and G and I then parted ways, with V going back to Chennai. G and I headed off to Bandipur Jungle Lodge by car. This is a Lodge right near the Bandipur National Park, home to a variety of wildlife including tigers. It was only a (relatively) short journey to the Lodge of about two hours' drive.

The Jungle Lodges are government-run and provide basic ecofriendly chalet-style accommodation. In the case of the Bandipur Jungle Lodge, the accommodation is right on the edge of the Bandipur National Park. The accommodation was very clean, comfortable and (compared to the accommodation in Agra) relatively luxurious. All meals (which were surprisingly good) were included in the price of the stay, as were two safaris on jeeps through the National Park.

We went on our first safari that evening. G and I were two of five guests of the lodge sitting in the back of a jeep, cameras in hand and waiting to see wildlife. When we started off, all we saw were deer, monkeys and the odd mongoose. But before long we found ourselves right alongside an enormous male tiger, wallowing in mud to cool himself. We then quietly stalked the tiger in our jeep for about an hour, watching as he made his way around the park.

Although the Jungle Lodges advertise themselves as places to stay to spot tigers, apparently it's actually rare to see a tiger, so we felt very lucky. Indeed, on our second safari the following morning we didn't see any tigers, instead having to console ourselves by looking at monkey after monkey after monkey.

After the safari it was lunch and then we set off on the drive to Cochin. This should have been about a 7-hour drive but, thanks to roadworks and festivals blocking off the roads, it in fact took over 12 hours to get there. The drive was quite interesting, however, and we discovered the enthusiasm in the state of Kerala for blinged up christian churches. Along every road there seemed to be churches which could easily be mistaken for carnivals, as they were covered in tinsel, flashing lights and enormous statues of Jesus painted in lurid colours. On our occasional pit stops along the way we also discovered the influence of communism throughout the state, as we would find ourselves being served by shop assistants with name badges showing their parents had given them names such as "lenin". One poor fellow had a name badge showing that he had to suffer with the surname "stalin". I can only hope the name "Stalin" was adopted by someone in his family tree sometime before the Soviet famine and purges of the 30s.

After our very long drive we arrived in Cochin (Kochi). We had just enough time to have dinner, admiring the Marina next to our hotel, before getting to bed. It was up early the next morning for a city tour.

Cochin is a beautiful city, and I wish we had had more time to explore it. It boasts being the site of the oldest European-built christian Church in India, St Francis Church. The original church was constructed in 1503 by Portuguese Franciscan friars. That church, sadly, no longer remains but in the mid-16th century, the church below was built on the site to remember it.

Cochin was also the site of a Jewish settlement and "Jew Town" (that's its official name!) is a popular tourist spot and great place to explore.

The fishing trade and Chinese fishing nets also made for some good photo opportunities around the harbour.

After Cochin it was off to the Kerala backwaters. There we spent our very last night in India staying in the exceedingly luxurious Taj Resort in Kumarakom. There we got to paddle boats around the lake, went on a cruise through the backwaters and gorged ourselves on delicious food.

The next morning we flew back to Chennai where we had dinner with V before saying our sad farewells to V and India and boarding our plane to London.

V may or may not be pleased to know that he proved such a good tour guide, we've already booked our flights to come and see him in New York over easter. This is the problem with being a good host!