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.

An Old Vet's Tales #1

The problem with tablets

My patients often taught me very valuable lessons. I had been with my first practice after qualifying for about four months during which time my confidence had started to grow. In fact rather than growing, it bolted to the extent that I was becoming somewhat arrogant and beginning to believe that I was God’s gift to the pet-owning public of Dunstable. 

It was an evening surgery when an elderly couple brought in their large ginger tom cat which had an abscess at the base of its tail. I was able to lance the boil and clean up the surrounded fur before giving it an injection of penicillin. This treatment needed to be followed up by oral medication of penicillin tablets. I handed the paper envelope containing the pills to the gentleman who expressed his conviction that they would be totally unable to give the cat the tablets.
“Oh, it’s very simple,” I said “You just draw down his lower jaw, pop the pill into the back of his throat and massage his throat while holding his mouth shut. Wait for him to swallow and the job is done.” 
I almost felt like patting them on the head as they left to make a follow-op appointment in three days’ time.
They duly arrived three days later with slightly ashamed looks on their faces. “We have not been able to give him the tablet I’m afraid,” he said in a low, apologetic whisper.
“That’s ridiculous,” I said in all my arrogance. “Give him to me and I will show you.”
That cat! It spat, it kicked, it bit, it twisted and clawed but, most of all, it brought me down several pegs and I surrendered by giving it another injection. After the clients left, probably with knowing smiles on their faces, I went to the sink to bathe my wounds but no amount of antiseptic soap was going to wash away the damage to my pride. I have never forgotten that cat and that was over 50 years ago.

Kind thoughts and a dead giraffe

Back in 1963, when I was in the penultimate year of my veterinary training, the veterinary school was presented with a circus giraffe with a nasty cough. There being no accommodation in the loose boxes the animal had to be kept in the truck in which it was normally transported from one venue to another. The truck was parked in a corner of the school’s car park.

After several days of inaction by the medical staff four of us students decided that the poor animal needed a bit of fresh air. Ken, the originator of the idea, went to the professor in charge and suggested that we took the beast for a walk. After a few minutes consideration, he gave us guarded permission. We tied four reins together and attached them to a head collar. Ken climbed the ladder, spoke reassuringly to the giraffe and fitted the collar. With two students on each rein we enticed the nervous animal out of its confinement and, two seconds later, chaos descended.

The giraffe, seeing a far horizon for the first time in a week, took off through the car park dragging us through the serried ranks of parked cars at a gallop. We careered out of the car park onto the impressive approach road leading to the impressive façade of the school building. Immaculate lawns bordered the wide carriageway with prominent notices invoking severe penalties for encroaching on the hallowed turf. Unfortunately, giraffes do not have literary skills; it cantered onto the carefully tended greensward, took several deep breaths and dropped dead. The image of ten feet of giraffe falling sideways with a resounding thump remains burnt on my memory. After a few minutes of shocked but respectful silence we decided that Ken had better go and inform the professor of the demise of his patient.

The result was a swarm of white-coated laboratory technicians surrounding the body taking every pathological sample known to man.

Within a few hours we had the diagnosis – tuberculosis! Among the many problems that this diagnosis raised was the fact that the veterinary school’s prize flock of Clun Forest sheep were grazing the field on the opposite side of the approach road. Having persuaded the local slaughterhouse to remove the body it was decided to use a flame thrower to kill off any stray mycobacteria which may have infected the sheep. For the rest of that summer our ‘crime’ was plainly advertised by the charred outline of a giraffe alongside the Palladian entrance to the building.

There was an interesting sequel to this story. Tuberculosis takes three different forms – avian, bovine and human – and the giraffe had been infected by the human form. The circus was eventually tracked down but the giraffe’s handler had since left the circus to work as a garage mechanic in Birmingham. When he was visited by the public health authorities he mentioned that he had been troubled by a cough for a couple of years. He was subsequently treated for TB and made a complete recovery.

Our youthfully irresponsible, but altruistic, actions had led to the unfortunate death of a beautiful animal but, probably, saved the life of a son, husband and father.

Comparing bonfires to wine

There are many interesting comparisons between a glass of vintage wine and a satisfying bonfire. When assessing either pleasure many properties should be taken into account. These include body, colour, structure, shape, ageing, aroma and finish.

The body of both can vary between rounded and thin; colour gives an indication of the potential pleasure, pale green to deep purples in the case of wine and deep green to dark brown with bonfires. The structures can be open or closed while the shapes should be well-rounded. Ageing of wine is measured in years while that of bonfires is calculated in days and weeks. Aroma is a vital quality of both wine and bonfires, the difference being that, in the case of wine, it is assessed at the start of the tasting while the bonfire’s olfactory pleasures develop later. The finish of a wine describes the length of time that the taste stays on the palate while that of the bonfire stimulates the nose and the eyes. A well-finished bonfire should satisfy the nose with a soft drifting smoulder without any acidity and please the eye with a feather-soft circular pillow of light grey ash.

The creation of wine and bonfires starts with the harvest. Nature requires the physical removal of the grapes from the vine but, for a bonfire, she asks nothing more than a rubbish collection. There are many thousands of grape varieties while there are millions of potential bonfire elements. Most grapes become useless as they die back and rot whereas the opposite is true of a satisfying bonfire. In both cases wet socks should be avoided. The combination of grape varieties by the cellar master is matched by that of the bonfire constructor. The Shiraz grape will lend an aura of smokiness to a red wine while a small proportion of green vegetation creates a soul-satisfying white smoke at the height of the fire. Small amounts of tannin may improve a number of wines but they are essential to a good bonfire.

Both viticulture and bonfire creation start very simply. One with the simple addition of yeast and the other by the use of a single match. Both develop with time. The descriptions of both include the terms ‘dry’ and ‘sweet’. The best sweet bonfires are made with fruit wood such as apple. The colour of wine comes largely from the grape skins while the brighter colours of the fire are augmented by some metallic papers.

Ageing is essential to the quality of the end product. Young wines are often thin and lack character while green bonfires are rarely satisfying.

Oenology is the study of wine while the accomplished creator of a great bonfire is prosecuted as an arsonist. Perhaps the study of bonfires should be called hephiastology after the Greek god of fire, Hephiastos.

The political timeline of Dr Sean Edward Roche - my son-in-law

December 2012

Shares the photo launch of the National Health Action Party

January 2013

Selected as Head of Strategy for NHAP

September 2014

Wins by-election for Stratton-on-the-Fosse East replacing the Conservative incumbent who, having claimed expenses for a suit of armour, fell on his sword and died of septicaemia after being held in the casualty waiting room for 3 days.

September 2015

Keynote speaker at the 1^st NHAP party conference held on the second floor of the Travel Lodge in Sturminster Newton. He makes a triumphant debut on Question Time completely eclipsing Janet Street-Porter, Lord Bruce Forsythe and the latest winner of Britain’s Got Talent

December 2015

David Cameron cancels Hogmanay to the anger of the Scottish Nationalist Party. He reverses the decision and is diagnosed with Meniere’s Disease after too many U-turns. He is replaced by Boris Johnson who immediately shoots himself in the foot and is admitted to the King Edward Hospital for Officers. This is closed the next day as a result of budget cuts and he limps home. NHAP gains 4 seats in constituencies that have no Primary Healthcare hospitals. Sean turns down the offer to become Speaker of the House of Commons.

February 2016

27 of the 46 Police Commissioners are de-selected following the disclosure of links to three national protection gangs – the Cons, the Libs and the Labs. The other 19 could not be found after becoming lost and unable to find a policeman to ask for directions. Sean becomes Patron of MenCap

July 2016

Boris Johnson bombs Iran but misses. President Homer Simpson tears up the Special Relationship. Sean crosses the house to join the alliance of the North Cornish Nationalist Party and UKIP and is immediately promoted to the Ministry of Transfusions and Sticking Plasters previously known as the Treasury. The waiting time for non-urgent surgical cases is now extended until 3 weeks after you are dead saving £17.68 billion allowing the new fifth London airport to be built at Haverfordwest. The Secretary of State for Transport got a D in his Geography GCSE.

October 2017

The coalition of the NCNP, UKIP and NHAP forms a new party named Consignia. Greece repays 76 trillion drachmas to Greater Germany previously known as the EU. Lord Sean of Wayford Bridge elected President of England now that Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and Warrington have achieved independence. He is carried in triumph on top of an open topped bus down the A303 where it gets stuck in a traffic jam at Stonehenge. While waiting for two days for the traffic to clear he is anointed Head Druid to pass the time.

Boris Johnson apologises to Coventry, Clerkenwell, Canterbury, Turks and Caicos Islands – and Iran. He resigns to spend more time with the family circus. The snap General Election results in a landslide victory for anyone unassociated with any of the three main political parties.

August 2020

Sean resigns the Presidency to spend more time playing obscure music tracks to Scottish Blackface sheep on South Uist thereby increasing their wool yield. Lady Tamsin has a sell-out exhibition of her sculptures at the Courtauld Gallery. Among the buyers were Charles Saatchi, Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber and Banksy.

Enough already!

The Secret People

One of my favourite poems is The Secret People by G K Chesterton. The first lines are –
“Smile at us, pay us, pass us but do not quite forget
For we are the people of England and we have not spoken yet.”

The eclectic, bizarre and magnificent opening ceremony of the 2012 Olympics suggests that we have begun to clear our throats and find our voice.

We could never emulate Beijing. That sort of massed precision is simply not British. We are a quirky people and often difficult to understand. I am born and bred English and there were parts of the ceremony that passed over my head but other generations got things that I did not understand. Danny Boyle could never hope to satisfy everybody but he gave something to everyone. It may not be judged to have been the best ceremony in the history of the modern games – who is to judge what is best? – but it was unique; it was phantasmagorical and, essentially, British. What other Head of State would have agreed to a spoof parachute arrival at the age of 86 and then kept it a secret from the tabloid press and even her own family?

We were all inundated with prophesies of gloom prior to the Games – security would be non-existent thanks to G4S; the road network would end in gridlock; the Tube would collapse under the weight of passengers; queues would be miles long at the Olympic venues once you had waited four hours in the immigration hall at Heathrow and businesses would go down the drains. It was a typically British way of rubbishing ourselves. We are allowed to do that but any outsider should think long and hard before he begins to join in the criticism as Mitt Romney has found to his cost.

Agincourt, Trafalgar, Waterloo, Dunkirk, Battle of Britain and London 2012.
“We are the people of England; and we have not spoken yet.
Smile at us, pay us, pass us but do not quite forget.”