ON BUGS, RESUSCITATION, VINNIE JONES, AND THE MANY LAYERS OF GOLF…

I have a beautiful grandson – gorgeous, gregarious and engaging.  He is full of wonder, vim and vigour and he is at that age where he soaks up knowledge in the sponge-like manner that only the very young can effortlessly achieve and then regurgitates it, as adult wisdom, full of ingenuous humour.  He cracks me up endlessly.  I get to be three all over again when I’m in his presence.  He is also generous and shares everything, which is how I came to acquire a certain infection.  I came to babysit recently and his opening salvo ran like this: “I’m a poorly boy, Nanna, and poorly little boys need their hugs and kisses”.  In a flash, fourteen years of hand-hygiene-to-the-fore went out the window, I reneged on all the research-based evidence that was ingrained in me, infection control was blown out of the water, any erudite conversations with a consultant microbiologist or two were filed under “Highly Unnecessary” and I engaged in close encounters of the hugging kind.  Scooping poorly boy in my arms and smothering him with kisses, I loved him at the point of his need – and paid the price.  He generously shared his infection with me.  Those of you of a delicate disposition should look away now and switch off your brain’s visual display.  Let us dwell not too long on the permutations of the Norovirus bug but, ahem, clutching the toilet pan in the wee small hours like it’s your new best friend is nobody’s finest hour.  And it wasn’t mine.  Le Bug met Le Bog several times that night.  Now I was poorly.

It’s winter here in the UK.  That means two things: it’s cold; warming layers are the only fashion statement.  Switch your brain’s visual display back on, recall Sir Rannulph Fiennes fine comment “ There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing”, think golf course, think Michelin Man (America - the look is poppin’ fresh Pillsbury Doughboy) and you have us down to a tee.  You cannot see gender easily (or so I thought): we are all homogenously onion shaped from the neck down.  Sounds sensible but I have a few things to say about layers.  Stick with me here, reader, it’s worth it…

A week later and somewhat recovered, there I was standing on the tee box, strutting my layers and yielding my body into the power force that constitutes a perfect drive when, all of a sudden, the resultant four pound weight loss from the trajectory of Le Bug through my system manifested itself. I could scarce believe my rods and cones but my eyes were not deceiving me.  Suddenly, I was wearing that low-slung-crotch look beloved of “saggers” and hip-hop youf culture everywhere.  I don’t rate the look and I can only describe the event as a bum rap or, to be spot-on pedantically precise, more like a bum unwrap.  Intent as I was at modelling the Rory McIlroy bombing-it-for-an-eagle-on-a-par-five swing, I had swivelled fast and furious.  All was well with my body but not with my now loose trousers.  They took on a life of their own and headed south, along with two other layers, till I was inadvertently showing what is graphically described as builder’s bum.  Since I am a fully paid up member of the gym bunny brigade, perhaps I exaggerate the yardage of my lower cleavage.  Maybe barefaced cheek might be a more suitable euphemism.  Whatever phrase you use, there was a lot of unwanted flesh hanging out.  A thoroughly frozen asset, I might add, that left me somewhat embarrassed.

Oh yes!  I am hot on layers.  Comes with the work territory.  It wasn’t in the Job Description when I signed up to my current post in the cardiac world but I quickly learnt it was an everyday part of wintertime clinics.  Roger Neighbour wrote a seminal book on how to conduct a medical consultation.  I plough my way fervently through that inner consultation model with each consultation and every patient.  It works brilliantly.  The appliance of science and I’m lovin’ it, Rodge, except for one thing: nowhere in that sterling textbook of yours does it tell me how to find my patient under the Layers ‘R’ Us ensembles that appear in my clinics in the guise of patients.  It’s obvious women score high in the layer department: there the vagaries of a bra, then the thermal camisole, over layered petticoat, blouse (with tiny buttons), skirt, waist high tights, cardigan, and overcoat.  But I have to hand it to the men.  Yet again, they’ve managed to outrank and outsmart the ladies on layers.  More importantly, it’s the manner in which they apply them that’s the problem.  Take your average man: thermal vest (occasionally string…OMG! what’s that about), shirt (with even tinier buttons), pullover (the tighter the better), fleece gilet, lined jacket, underpants, long johns that extend from ankles to armpits with gripping elasticated waistband tight enough to stop the circulation, woollen socks to the knees, and surmounted by an overcoat.  Every item on the top half is tucked deeply into the folds and layers of the bottom half and then he adds the final piece de resistance: belt and braces.  It’s total lockdown.  Carnage.  It would be easier to pull a successful heist on Fort Knox or vanquish the vaults of the Bank of England than unsheathe a man ensconced in these items of body armour.  I don’t think the Crown Jewels have such tight security.  And I lose fifty percent of clinic time just digging out my male patients from the bowels of their clothing.  Now if Lady Misfortune were to smile on such a person and decide to send an unsolicited gift in the shape of a cardiac arrest or myocardial infarct, there would be little hope of exposing that chest wall to the timely necessity of a zap or two from a defibrillator.   In essence, it’s a pretty dead end look in every sense of the word.

Keep these clinical findings in your brain’s visual display and let me lead you back nicely to where I was standing on the tee box with my trousers way below the axis of decency…well, let’s not replay that scene.  I looked round surreptitiously to see who had seen my denouement.  And all I could see were layers.  Rammed down in your pants layers.  Belted layers.  Braced to the hilt layers.  And suddenly those onion-shaped Michelin Doughboys had gender.  Man-shaped gender.  I forgot my predicament as the rush of cold air from my derrière esposé hit my brain and, in an instant, I realised what a great disservice the Royal And Ancient do to their male members.  Oh yes, we ladies thought we had it bad with the lads-only rule at Muifield and Troon - and let’s also include here the miscreants from the other side of The Pond: guilty as charged Lochinvar, the shameful Black Sheep Golf Club, the boo-hiss Bob-O-Link, Butler National and Burning Tree Golf Clubs, and the dated attitudes of Old Elm Club and The National Golf Club of Canada – but those faux pas pale into insignificance by comparison with the men’s dress code so gloriously upheld by most golf clubs and at the behest of the R&A.  For once, something in the golfing world swings in our favour.  We ladies don’t have to tuck anything in.

My light bulb moment of inspiration would have me say this:  Boys of a certain age or if you have acquired a cardiac history at any age, ditch the belts, braces and tucked-in-the-waistband look.  Pay no regard to the Royal and Ancient rules and regs.  Defibrillators weren’t on the scene when they wrote those rules.  Forget your local golf course dress enforcement policy.  There’s a tight working window when your body pulls off a cardiac event.  If anyone has to spend thirty minutes seeking your sternum, you’ll have hit the great exit ramp of life at high speed and those bolted down layers will merely be accelerating your exit.  And for what and whom?  Just let it all hang out.

Vinnie Jones is worth a look-see.  Watch and learn from the hard man.

https://www.bhf.org.uk/heart-health/nation-of-lifesavers/hands-only-cpr/behind-the-scenes-with-vinnie

And if you don’t believe in the golf course scenario, listen to Alan’s story.

http://youtu.be/M2STeerbaWA

Victor: I’ve made it easy for you to follow my scribble this time round.  I put the French words in italics