I HAVE a GP job I can do in my pyjamas.
Dr Justin Coleman
THIS month I got done over by a drug seeker.
PINCHING other people’s ideas is an ancient form of larceny, and one at which I excel.
Yearning for that elusive peak where every factor aligns: brilliant diagnosis, impossible cure, parents who can sing...
IF I EVER found myself stuck on stage with 500 Czechs staring at me expectantly, and the only instrument within reach was a Steirische accordion, I’d have a fair dinkum go at playing it. I mean, you would, wouldn’t you?
- Politics is about survival of the fittest – words
- Six wishes granted from the sandwich genie
- When the medical jackaroo rides into town
- Medicine is the best when it’s a bloody mess
- Try a new tack
- Board of management
- Peeling the easy way
- Navel gazing
- Say blah!
- Well heeled
- Expired thread
- Weighing up home exercises
I am quite fond of misogyny. Misogyny and syphilis. You never quite know whether to write ‘y’ or ‘i’, and these spelling quirks give me an odd thrill. Just a pity neither is curable with amitriptyline. When the Macquarie Dictionary redefined the word ‘misogyny’ the week after PM Gillard threw it at Mr Abbott, I, for one, was cheering. Not for her aim, necessarily, but it’s not often that the definition of a word hits the front page (let alone an opposition leader). Labor PMs traditionally have a higher dictionary impact factor than their Liberal counterparts. Think of Whitlam’s cur, Keating’s soufflé ...
IF I was granted six wishes in my GP job, I wouldn’t waste the magic on patients: I’d wish for a really good lunch every Monday. Following this logic – keep up now, I don’t want to have to spell it out – that would be five wishes gone. For my sixth, curiously, I’d request that the Queen made me a minor noble peer. Specifically, the Earl of Sandwich. I’m awfully fond of lunch. Not just the food: I love the whole package. The escape, the furtive dash through an empty waiting room and onto the street while my audible screen ...
BOWEL charts are a thing of the devil. I hate even mentioning them. In fact, I won’t; let’s talk about blood glucose diaries instead. A bunch of folk just like me – but sweeter – fill in a smattering of glucose columns whenever they can, missing a few days while getting on with their lives. They diarise to please their diabetic educator, who secretly knows that the patient eventually learns to write fiction and will merely go through the motions. Which brings us straight back to bowel charts. I have a middle-aged patient – let’s call her Julie, the name and gender ...
I NEVER liked studying history. Too much happened, and I wasn’t even there. My teacher was a lovely bloke, but had a marked stammer. He was always repeating himself – not unlike history itself, come to think of it. Years later I met him again as a patient, which is always an odd transposition. That disconcerting feeling that you should be calling him ‘sir’ instead of poking his belly. I told him if he didn’t relate a concise set of symptoms I’d write in the notes, ‘a poor historian’. He thought I hadn’t grown up much. History is on my mind, because I recently started ...
THESE summer holidays I paid a return visit to God’s waiting room. Nothing much had changed. After seven years without me, a pleasing proportion of my elderly former patients had still not had their number called. Must be the sea air. For six years I co-owned a practice in 3225, the postcode with more over-65 Victorians than any other, even including the Gold Coast. The town sleeps in the middle of the ABC’s SeaChange country but, unlike magistrate Laura Gibson, most folk wait until retirement to make their move. Seems they’re fine with the ...