So I realise that it has been two months since I updated, and I did write a reasonably long post about my thrilling trips to the garden centre, a classical music concert, my viva examination, some crazy lady in Oxford Street and all manner of other exciting adventures.

As you can see, it is not here; instead I am on a London bus on the first leg of my journey to Italy, writing this update on my phone whilst my girlfriend talks about maxi-dresses and blazers and other things I don’t understand whilst I pretend to listen attentively. That’s progress eh?

I’ll do my best to keep you up to date with this brief, week long sejour that allows me to recharge my desperately depleted batteries before I start the next year and a half of clinical rotations, starting with the hell that will be pathology. That is, indeed, if I make it back; between staying in the middle of nowhere and hiring a car in Italy isn’t an enirely certain prospect. Luckily I do have a sweet hat…

To keep you entertained in the meantime, here is a ludicrous video I featured in for graduation about handshakes, including a man who has stolen the rector’s clothes and is wearing his face as a mask (no joke): 

http://www2.imperial.ac.uk/imedia/content/view/1505/the-right-handshake/

Jaimie

So I’m back home again, and for some reason that means (statistically speaking) I am much more likely to write a post. This may well be because I’m getting a better night’s sleep on the orthopaedic king-size space mattress I have at home. Yes, I am that old.

Money’s getting tight, I don’t mind telling you. With the lack of holidays I am unable to work much at my holiday job looking after children for the council, although I have managed to squeeze in a couple of days in- it’s all about the cashback.

I’m actually pretty bad for keeping track of my finances; I occasionally have cursory look at online banking, but that normally gives me enough of a shock to not want to have a look again. The best indicator that money is getting tight is when the fridge has nothing but (a recent example here), a 300g block of 1 week old Tesco’s Finest Ardennes Pate, some decomposing Philadelphia, dried out ham, a collection of “purees” (also known as rotting vegetables) and a half empty bottle of soda water- because as you may have guessed, I’m a glass half empty kind of guy. The biggest hint that money was getting a bit tight was when I made a trip to the local Tesco to scavenge some food, and having decided on a pint of milk and a carton of orange juice found myself looking at the Pizzas. However, my keen eye spotted that an erstwhile employee of Sir John Tesco Esq. was- exceptionally slowly- reducing certain items that were soon to go out of date, and was gradually approaching a pizza I had my eye on. So I stood there. And waited. And waited. And stared. And eventually, just as the

Medical cover like a boss

reduced sticker hit the box, I rugby tackled the man out of the way, grabbed said pizza sending a risotto or four flying and charged out of the shop and in to the night waited for the gentleman to move out of the way before gently picked up the pizza and making a swift payment and exit. In retrospect, I realise how off-putting it must be to reduce fresh groceries whilst a sunken eyed, partially clothed man stares at you hungrily whilst holding chilled groceries - although admittedly I have never been in such a position myself. The grand total saving  at the cost of me looking like a lobotomy patient: £1,69.

Admittedly, that’s a mini-cashback. But who cares, every little helps (top pun there).

Incidentally, I realise I keep mentioning Tesco specifically- I promise this is solely because they are the closest to my house; sadly they’re not paying me to keep using their name. Hint if you’re listening though, Tesco.

Speaking of the stupid things people do, I worked at the marathon again this year providing medical cover.

I’ve written about this before, but never before have I looked like so much of a boss whilst saving lives. I also managed to avoid flying ice packs that had been packed in patients groins, which is always a bonus…

So work wise, I’m starting to research my mini-project about how we take consent for autopsies in England and Wales- top subject for killing dinner conversations. At the same time, my counterparts who have been researching a more scientific project for the last five weeks are now cramming as many participants as they can in to their studies- friends, strangers, passers-by; literally anyone will do it seems. Even me. So for your enjoyment, I leave you with the comedy moment of me being spun around in a chair in an effort to confuse my Vestibular system and be sick to aid a friend’s research project (cheers to Flo for the top quality video; HD and everything). Was I sick? Don’t be stupid. No chair can beat me. I did burp more than usual though…

Ok, I officially am the worst student blogger since the internets was invented.

I realise in my previous post, some three weeks ago, I promised to blog weekly. As you can see, that didn’t happen. I have a whole realm of excuses- and as one of them is impending examinations (that I am horrifically under-prepared for) I imagine I should be able to garner a small amount of sympathy- not least because I’ve managed to shoe horn some kick-ass alliteration into the title. BOO-YAH!

So- the last three weeks. When I last spoke to you I was limping around on some stolen re-distributed crutches- thankfully this is no longer the case, as my busted tendon has unbusted itself. This has unfortunately meant that that my other resolution of going for a run has been decimated, as I have a justifiable excuse for not going (i.e. it might happen again). I think part of the reason it’s healing up so nicely is because of the Xbox; I’d be lying if I said the Xbox hasn’t taken up a huge amount of my time, because it has.  Seriously though- is this not the most awesome set up known to man (note the easily accessible sideboard and whiskey):

Definitely the best place in the world. Fact

Previously I explained to you the concept of shooting zombies in a game that has no benefit to my medical career- that is, of course, until such time as the dead begin rising from the grave, when I will become literally the coolest doctor in the country. I can picture it now- bedpan in one hand and shotgun in the other, with witty repartees including, but not limited to, “Time of death…yesterday *boom*;” and “*boom* Looks like the canteen won’t be running out of goulash” said in a suitably masculine Austrian accent.

God I’m awesome.

So- notwithstanding these facts, I have been desperately learning some neuroscience. The majority of this has been pouring over books and review articles, desperately attempting to learn somewhere in the region of 300 genes and molecules and God knows what else. There was, however, a small practical element to the Mental Health module- a field trip, if you will, to Broadmoor Special Hospital. I always thought it would factor into general knowledge, the background and the purpose of Broadmoor, but a surprising number of people I talk to have never heard of it. Essentially, Broadmoor is a hospital for people who suffer from mental illness and present a high risk to themselves or others in society- many have been tried (or found unfit to be tried) and convicted of the most serious crimes. But most importantly, it is a hospital and not a prison- despite it looking like one and the robust security procedures. These were so robust, in fact, that at one stage I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to leave (especially aving seen a colleague get caught in between some security doors at the entrance, which garnered a hilarious moment of panic on his part; it certainly was to watch). I probably shouldn’t give too much away in the public domain lest I inadvertently permit some kind of escape- but suffice to say a good proportion of the visit was waiting for doors and gates to be unlocked and locked again. Broadmoor also has, rather happily, the best staff canteen I’ve come across in the NHS, although the tone of fine dining was somewhat shattered by the double fork count and the potential activation of a “Kitchen Cutlery Security Procedure;” a rather ominous sounding process which I don’t think I’ve ever come across in lunchtime dining before. I’m considering implementing something similar in my kitchen- you never know when I might push one of my housemates over the edge and end up with a rogue spoon lodged somewhere rather unpleasant.

In the same way as any other patients I see, they are afforded complete confidentiality, so sadly I am again limited on what I can tell you. We did get a chance to meet a couple of patients with schizophrenia, a frequently severe mental health condition that can have devastating consequences, and it was a fascinating but sobering insight into the complications of mental health- especially the levels of self-harm, and harm to others, the condition brings about. Above all, it was striking how normal Broadmoor is; including a shop run by the patients not dissimilar form my local Tesco (and probably much more reasonably priced), a theatre, a workshop and craft store selling items better than most of the crap I’ve seen at local craft fayre’s having had to pay 20p for the “privilege” of walking round, all set to the dulcet warblings of Britney Spears echoing out from a TV (albeit encased in perspex) around the corner. It’s very easy for the media to sensationalize the goings on of what is in part an antiquate Victorian building from a time  awhen the concept of straight-jackets and padded cells weren’t considered anathema, but behind the razor wire it’s just a hospital.

Now, I’m off to procrastinate desperately- and as I’ve begun a self inflicted ban on bringing righteous slaughter upon the undead, I am going to compile a list of reasons why “have you ever felt like a plastic bag” is the most ridiculous opening line to a song ever conceived. Good day.

Hello everyone- it’s your record breaking student blogger here (record breaking in the fact that I think I have broken the record for length of time between posts). This is even more poignant as I’ve had droves of you coming up to me in public enquiring, nay demanding, when the next blog post will be and telling me how much they love the blog.

That didn’t actually happen, sadly- although I did have a dream like that once.

So I’ve been well, albeit very busy. Christmas and it’s approach had all of the mystique this year that one would expect from a seventy five year old amateur magician with sciatica; it literally jumped upon me without warning. In a haze of Christmas debauchery and Christmas parties (which I inexplicably became de-shirted for a part of) I found myself driving through several inches of snow in a car that refused to acknowledge the function of a brake pedal to the worst place in the world: Westfield. I have nothing against it, per se, it’s just that it embodies the very soul of all that I despise about Christmas; the shopping, the fakery, the having to near-wrestle a person from a table in the food court just so you can sit to eat. Still, it did mean I got all the shopping done in a record 96 minutes and whacked up a credit card bill that single-handedly confirms the reason why students shouldn’t have credit cards.

So after a brief break, which I spent the majority of working (c.f. studying, very little of which in contrast got done) and a New Year’s party in Sutton- which could have been Afghanistan for all the fights, arrests, empty kebab boxes and ambulances- I find myself back in the fold. Indeed, in the spirit of the New Year, I decided to reprise the same resolution I make every year, which is to try and keep that little bit fitter. Thus, on Monday I went for a nice, leisurely job along the river. Jaimie 1 – 0 Apathy.

It turns out, somewhat ironically, that apathy is more determined to express its message that I shouldn’t be doing any exercise than I had anticipated. Come Tuesday morning I was finding it a little difficult to walk on my foot; by lunchtime I was hobbling home from Hammersmith Hospital. It would appear that I have done some damage to a tendon on the sole of my foot. Having “reallocated” a set of crutches from a housemate I am now mobile with the help of a stick. I had hoped to come across a little like House, however the plastic NHS elbow crutches combined with my waterproof coat make me look more “decrepit day release” than “troubled medical genius.” Oh well- it’s not like I was queuing in Tesco when the 85 year old lady in front of me- who walked with a stick and went on to tell how she had Diabetes, taken a recent fall, cataracts, hearing aids and arthritis- told me she felt sorry for me because I was disabled so young, and as I fumbled with a carrier bag offered to help pack my shopping.

Lucky that didn’t happen.
When one adds to this misery the impending exams that fourth years will face in a little over a month, it’s making for a somewhat miserable New Year. My only saving grace at the moment is the glorious new Xbox and 38inch HD TV with surround sound that I have stolen from home and installed in my bedroom. When I’m not warring with one of the interminable 6 year olds who has just (literally) stabbed me in the back f0r the thirtieth time that evening I’m pretending to play Dire Straits on a small plastic guitar, sitting on the end of my bed. It doesn’t get more uplifting than that, especially when I can only master four out of the five frets on the guitar and they’re not even real chords… It has had bizarre consequences on the relationship I have with my girlfriend however- having been resigned to the fact that I now love this heap of metal and plastic arguably more than her, she has decide to put in with the “don’t get mad get even” school of thought and demands to join in whenever I boot up the system and exercise some Zombie-based restorative justice in the character of John F Kennedy. I’m not sure what is more surreal: the fact that my girlfriend is screaming having been laid out on the floor as her face has been ripped off by a zombie, or the fact that Richard Nixon is now desperately trying to put said face back together before the pack of flaming, rabid hounds descends on us all from the indoor lightning. Hrrm.

I have, however, made one other resolution for the New Year- I will update this blog at least every 10 days. I was going to say every week on a specific day- but I don’t want to bore you to tears with irrelevant and aimless posts that tell you nothing (because this has obviously been highly informative).

So Happy New Year- and a word to the wise: if you see me around campus and would like to avoid any painful, forced addition of a crutch to your person, I would sincerely suggest you don’t offer to pack my groceries and let me carry on swearing quietly at my tendon.

Jaimie