An iguana problem

I have mentioned previously that the consulting vet cannot anticipate the species of his next patient. An evening surgery in the Crawley practice demonstrated this fact perfectly whea gentleman brought in a long cardboard box containing a medium-sized iguana.
“So what’s the problem?” I asked.
“She’s off her food. Won’t eat a thing.”

I should confess at this point that I know little about iguanas despite reading Zoology as a Part 2 at university. But I had a look at the conjunctivae, the lining of the eyeball and its socket, and they seemed nice and pink. Stethoscope sounds from the chest suggested no problems there but, when I felt the abdomen, the intestines were obviously empty. Because food has to go in through the mouth, I opened its jaws and there was the problem staring me in the face. A large, perfectly round, tumour was pressing the tongue hard up against the roof of the mouth preventing the passage of any food. Being perfectly round and smooth the chances were that the growth was benign so if I could remove it the problem should resolve itself. I showed it to the owner who asked if I could do anything about it.
“I can try,” I replied not quite knowing how. “Leave it with me and I will have a think about it.”

The problem was that I had never anaesthetised an iguana before so I looked the subject up in the textbooks. These informed me that there are two methods of anaesthetising iguanas - either by using Halothane by mask, our usual anaesthetic, or by putting it in the fridge overnight. We tidied up the fridge sufficiently to accommodate the reptile and left for the night.

The next morning we were relieved to find the patient still alive, albeit breathing very slowly. My partner wafted a mixture of oxygen and Halothane towards the rather wooden victim while I prised open its tight jaws. A small scalpel blade run round the base of the tumour allowed it to pop out quite easily looking like a white table tennis ball. Small catgut sutures repaired the lining of the mouth and the job was done. Iguanas are cold-blooded creatures and its heartbeat had slowed dramatically in the fridge so there was hardly any blood loss at all. We put it back in its cardboard box and placed it on the central heating boiler. By mid-afternoon the patient had recovered sufficiently to tuck into a small meal of lettuce leaves and a few grapes. 

Never dismiss something as impossible until you have had a long think about it.

Bishops of Leicester

For no logical reason the phrase "Bishop of Leicester" has enetered our family's vocabulary. Every family has their own quirks, shorthand and innate understanding but this is how this phrase entered our own family's lore. It is a long story which I will try to condense as much as possible. 

It is over forty years ago when my wife and family were taking my brother, from Australia, on a tour of the sights of London one Sunday afternoon. We happened to be driving down Pall Mall when we passed a distinguished gentleman in a well-cut suit, gleaming black shoes, purple shirt and red tie. For no apparent reason whatsoever I said “Oh, look, that’s the Bishop of Leicester.”

Everyone turned their heads to watch the receding figure when my brother asked me how I knew it was the bishop.

“It was the purple shirt that caught my eye, “I said. “He’s probably come straight from the House of Lords.” The family gasped at my knowledge of the upper echelons of society while I remained silent and drove on. They swallowed it hook, line and sinker.

Two hours later on arrival at our home north of Colchester I confessed my deception pointing out that while purple often distinguishes a bishop’s attire he would be more likely to be wearing a dog collar than red tie. Also we were nowhere near the House of Lords which does not sit on Sundays and there are only 26 diocesan bishops in the Lords of which Leicester was not one. Happily the ruse was taken in good humour and the anecdote entered our family lore.

Since that time I have been tempted to lead family and friends astray by concocting potentially believable stories. They are having to be more and more believable over the years as the family are getting adept as recognising what is now called “A Bishop of Leicester” almost before the story is finished.

I will finish by relating a recent ‘success’. We were at a friend’s home having supper with mutual friends when the other guests presented the hosts with one of those enamelled French coffee percolators, looking like a billy can, beautifully decorated in white with blue highlights. The hosts had always wanted one for their home and it was much appreciated.

This was too much of a temptation.

“Do you know what the French word for that implement is?” I asked.

They shook their heads.

“It’s called ‘le ballast’. The ‘bal’ describes the round lid that serves as a cup and ‘l’ast’ is Old French for ‘the workings’.”

“Really!” they asked.

“That’s where we get the English word ‘ballast’. If you hang the percolator by the wire handle it hangs perpendicular which is what ballast does for a ship.”

Their mouths fell open at my erudition until my wife quietly said “That's a Bishop of Leicester”.

“What’s a bishop got to do with coffee makers?”

She went on to explain my strange sense of humour – and I am glad to say that I was forgiven.

As I enter my ninth decade it keeps my grey cells active without giving offence to my friends and family.