BluE Scrubs

Bribed with See Through LCD Clock by Simvastatin - like it works there and then; the drug.


Slicing with precision through the mucilaginous fog, draping down into the barely visible horizon of M180, my Megane hummed, Mario begging me to let him love me, and it slowly sank onto me, that I am no longer working in the same hospital.

I was driving fast approaching this new place, which according to my builder friend Jason, doesn’t deserve the S in it. SCUNTHORPE. I thought that was a bit unfair until I approached a vast field on the right of M180, stretching as far as my weary eyes could take me. Festooned with rustic colour metal shells geometrically assembled, so giant, with smoke coming out from all robust cylinders nailing the ‘mothership’ securely to the terra firma. It looked like a giant beetle smoking a fat jointl only puffing out through all orifices including the anus.

The surrounding looking disjointed, ghastly and the trees in the distance didn’t really frame the factory for a picturesque balance, more like a feral secret production line of illegal penile prosthesis.

I made it such there was no barrier between me and the ‘mothership’, so the mirror eased down. A whiff of arid pungent smell initially limboed and snaked, then without warning, jarred in so strong, I fought a fitting cough. So stale the smell I wonder if I had gasped a lung full of a nerve gas as well. My eyes bleary my head pounding.

It didn’t stain yellow the air around me, but the dome looked, like I said, rustic and tarnished. Whatever it is, it oxidises metal well. I felt dizzy.


An SMS :

Naj r u not coming for induction? Where r u?
It's Deepa.

I glanced at my dear Longines and it’s 20 past 9. The induction for new doctors was ahem, starting at 9, and I was at the entrance, the car park was choc-a-block.

I couldn’t blame myself more but I couldn’t help myself better. Been hopscotching to work for a year and very much used to that and suddenly bang! Kepoww! Today I had to drive to work.

There’s a huge inert lardy energy resisting the act of sitting on my ass and doing stick exercise to overcome, huge concoction of poisonous tardy thoughts to trick, and above all, I had to actually dress up to work.

Can’t just slip into a bluescrubs supporting unruly hair only fit to be shoved and tucked into the breatheable funny hat. Can’t just wear any old clothes, it’s my first day at a new place meeting new people. Can’t just go with bare face, what if the surgical boys this time around are not like any surgical boys? What if the plastic clone boys have perfectly formed phalanges, smooth knuckles, showing nicely separated fronds of the forearm, ripples of those flexor digitorum superficialis (do exaggerate the pout as you say this and only partially part lips to the last ssssss while lowering smoky gaze ) and…. broad nail girth? I appreciate the dexterity of the upper limb extremities very much to the point elaborating the anatomy has become second nature. I do apologize.

(cross reference from the book How To Make Anyone Fall in Love With You. Part 1.6, page 28, Make a dynamite impression, be ready, always)

No chance there then, managed to slip into a pair of well loved corduroy and paired up with a pin stripe tailored no- need- ironing- shirt with gentle frills at the front, not over powering, so I liked that very much. There is this thing about power dressing without over powering the people you want to empower, which doesn’t sound right but you know the agenda.

So after subjecting myself to an endless torture about handwashing, MRSA, and which forms to fill for which bottles, duressed into watching men in uniform saving a hospital on fire on tape, reduced to tears watching the tape on how not to fill in death certificates and cremation forms, was only pleased to entertain finger food at the back of the induction lecture hall later. Joined Deepa who was ecstatic I did turn up.

I met:

1) 2 girls in tudungs I quickly warmed up to. ‘Eh, laaaaaa you boleh cakap melayu ke. Kita dok tengok dari tadi, tak berani tegur, err Sheffield jugak ke tak pernah nampak pun?’ the one with glasses said assuming I am a PRHO as well. PRHO, the lowest of the food chain. Eaten by birds, the SHOs. These two are like cute little worms you only touch gently without squeeezing their bowel content. Painfully shy, extremely coo-y and giggly, hopelessly clueless but damn determined. I have a lot of respect for them, straight from Malaysia to do house jobs here. I felt like a boy when they eagerly asked for my number.

2) A tall dark *cough*looking dish I mean doctor on the latest Motorola mobile phone walked past and stopped next to me and the girls, armed with our mobile phones. ‘Malaysians ya?’ in his best English accent. ‘me too’ he said. Both girls grinned. Before we knew it we all had each other’s number, only I had to get them to write it on a piece of paper because Sony Ericsson’s battery did a Bolognese. And I think I mysteriously acquired 2 holes at the back of my head when he stared intensely because I somehow forgot my number for the first 2 minutes.


3) Nimi- my favourite registrar from Hull. She’s the only Indian registrar I know who is still single. But she takes no crap from anybody. She's a reason this place is less dismal.


4) A Nigerian black and white clone PRHO who kept asking Deepa personal questions like ‘So why are you hard to impress?’, to which Deepa thought, telling him I AM MARRIED will be quite drastic but not really off topic because somebody clearly has done just that.

Not that anybody should know but skived the rest of the afternoon. Resuscitation, ABC ..ABC..how hard can that be.