Breaking the Sidetracks

Now, those of you following this blog (A big thank you for your patience first of all), who have been wondering just what sort of punishment I was finally going to receive for the injury I had caused to my younger brother, when I accidentally split open his scalp with the thrown stilt (thrown at a kite in the tree remember, not at my younger brother). His untimely and unexpected arrival at the scene (he was supposed to have stayed at home) led to my current situation in this tale. Just to recap. Following the stilt and his head connecting, and my carrying my bleeding brother home (believing I had of course killed him), screaming in fear of what my father would do to me, to all and sundry in the neighbourhood, and so loudly in fact, that it was probably to all and sundry, who lived anywhere in the length of the valley. Then after he was taken away in the ambulance (“Alive, he’s alive I tell you”. I was even happier than Victor Frankenstein in the old movie classic, when he managed to re-animate the monster) I went to my room which my brothers and I all shared, to await the return of my father. After waiting in fear for his arrival home, in that bedroom with a thousand various punishment scenarios running through my young and impressionable mind, I was to be made to wait even further. For, when my father finally arrived home (he certainly didn’t rush home or to the hospital to be at my brothers bedside), instead of coming in to ‘deal with me’ as I had expected, he had a discussion with my mother before they both left for the hospital (In a taxi, which as mentioned held some significance in the seriousness of the situation).

Leaving me to wait in stress even further. I was to wait some time yet, until unexpectedly, I was called out to dinner (really it was most unexpected), but thinking at the time, obviously, even a condemned man must be fed until he is dealt with. A meal, which as you may recall was eaten in silence (not the normal practice in our household). The seriousness of the situation was highlighted in that I was not permitted any of the pineapple upside down sponge cake dessert (that in itself was a cruel punishment). So, there I was, sent back to await the return of my father, to continue my fearful, stressful, worrying considerations. To imagine a wide variety of potential punishments and recall many other which I had previously received. I recall working out a mental list of grades for the types of misdemeanours I had committed and the actual punishments I had received (It was quite a big list). In fact, given the variety of incidents and, considering what the outcomes had been, it was a very difficult list to compile as, in many ways, the randomness of the punishment did not necessarily match with the ‘offence’ committed.

(Continued tomorrow)

Break Away

I came out of the bathroom with the slightly embarrassing wet marks on my school shorts, which I was trying to hide behind my schoolbag The pull down towel was too high up on the wall to reach the shorts. I had tried to take them off to dry them on the towel, but with only one useful arm, it was a bit hard to manage to put any pressure on the cloth. These were the old pull down loop of towel. Where you had to grip both sides and pull the length of fabric down. Then the soiled part would retract up into the back of the unit.  It would have been great to have one of those air-blower wall mounted units. Particularly the ones where you could  turn the nozzle around and have it face down/up. But they were yet to come into use back then. How did we ever manage, young people must wonder? Oh, that’s right. Things took effort and we did it. Just like cleaning. It isn’t that hard to wash and clean things.

As I stepped out there was the nurse who had wrapped my arm in the new cast. I suddenly felt that the entire front of my shorts were not only wet, but shining fluorescent green as well. However she appeared not to even notice. “Do you know how much a taxi home would cost you?” she asked. “No”, I said, knowing that they were for very special occasions (see blog 14^th April, 10^th July 2012) “I’m just going home on the bus.” She showed some real concern. “Are you sure you don’t want us to pay for a taxi home for you?” She must have noticed my wet shorts after all? Was she worried other people might? I just wanted to get outside in the fresh air and hopefully they would be dry in a short time as I walked to the bus. I had never thought it was guilt from the way the doctor had just treated me. (See blog 21^st /22^nd August 2012). “Oh, no!” I replied. Dreading explaining to my mother why I had taken money from a poor nurse just to get home (I believe I knew my mother had worked at some time as a nurse/hospital worker in the past and wouldn’t have earned very much). “The bus stops right outside our house. Thank you.” I smiled pleasantly then stopped to think for a moment. “Oh, will this be just the three more weeks or is it going to be another five weeks?”. I asked the nurse. She smiled. She was a very nice nurse. “No, you’re starting from scratch again”. She said, then continued, “The five weeks start again, I’m sorry.” I must have looked a bit disappointed. “Okay” I said and left the hospital. I nodded to the receptionist at the doors and quickly left for home. A fresh new plaster for everyone to draw on. I wonder what masterpieces they would create this time?

Breaking Waves

Fortunately my fall onto the tile floor did not generate very much noise. So I was not faced with people banging on the door to check on my welfare. Reaching over, I pulled some paper off the toilet roll, before I could carefully get myself up to my feet, and get to the toilet. To finish what had started when I hit the floor. (unfortunately) I was a little lucky my shorts were at least down by then. Not too much to clean up.  So after managing to do just that, and getting to the toilet itself, I completed the … er….. formulae. Successfully. I eventually finished at the toilet and cleaned myself up, which needed a minor amount of washing, required to clean up the visible dampness at the front and side of the shorts, resulting from the combined urgent need to urinate and the slip (Not to forget the biting of the tongue). Managing to pull up the shorts in stages I made ready to leave. But left with a slight visible ‘wet patch’. What to do?
If this has ever happened to you (and there are many I am sure who recall such incidents) and you are leaving a bathroom with ‘water marked’ shorts or trousers, it can be unnerving. It doesn’t matter if you have actually wet your pants slightly, or, as has happened to just as many, had the sudden high pressure of the water from the tap mounted on the basin, and, the unusual pouring design of the basin’s bowl result in the front of your trousers being soaked by a wave of sudden embarrassment. What is that about? Are there bathroom designers with perverse, warped senses of humour, who set out to prove they understood what they paid attention to in school, but know others didn’t listen? And, as a result of their knowledge, have decided to prove it? Or is this their pure revenge for any ridicule they may have suffered? Taking that mathematics and engineering knowledge and, applying the rules of physics to it, to ensure that in bathrooms all over the world, the slightest pressure of water, will send a wave flying over the front of the bowl, where everyone has to be positioned, ensuring that trousers, shorts, or I am sure, some skirts can be soaked right where it is the most embarrassing?
Or is it instead, collusion between bathroom cleaners,technicians and plumbers, where, no matter how poor the water pressure previously, they are able to increase the amount of water flow specifically from those taps (even if the rest of the water system remains at low pressure), to splash in the basin and overflow straight to the user. To leave them wet, startled and potentially embarrassed? You are of course paranoid that everyone will notice you have ‘wet’ yourself when you go to leave a public bathroom after such an incident. Regardless of how it may have occurred. And people never believe that it was the taps water pressure or the design of the hand basin, would they?

Breaking The Fall

So, toilet roll dispenser was out. There were few options, then, I noticed that there was also a shower in this space and, there was a wall mounted, fold up, wooded seat. This could probably be unfolded and the edge used to catch on the edge of my shorts. If I sat on the seat to hold it down. Then I could simply slide backwards and pull the shorts down. Perfect! Like I said, McGyver had ways to make it appear easy to solve these problems. And I just had too. Seat folded down. Sitting on the edge. Shorts grabbed with my one good hand and the edge of my elastic waist fed onto the edge of the seat. Then sliding backwards across the seat (not too dissimilar to the dog dragging himself on his rear, come on, we’ve all seen it) I managed to inch the tight elastic waisted shorts down to my knees. However during this action, I had that momentary fear I had not secured the door. I was only concerned when a sudden noise at the door, that of someone about to enter, startled me. I tried to look across to the door snib. No, all good. Just as the handle depressed. What? Perhaps it was broken. Perhaps you couldn’t snib it since it was a hospital and people might get in to trouble and need assistance.
Suddenly jumping to my feet, as I intended to prevent the person entering the bathroom, two things happened. One, the door didn’t open. Two, the shorts were still hooked on the wooden seat. So, as I stood, the edge folded up and pulled me backwards. Of course I slipped backwards to the wall and came down on my rear on the floor. That hurt. Partly because I had tried to protect the freshly plastered arm. Unusually concerned, I was lucky I didn’t throw it out to break my fall. Which normally would have been the natural response. Fortunately this time, I grabbed the arm against me as I fell. I doubt it could have taken another break that day.
Have you ever noticed when you slip or fall and jar down on your spine, that you usually have your tongue between your teeth. Yep. You bite down onto the tongue. Hard and fast. When you do, it’s just enough to bite the edges or one side. Obviously the tongue decides to go to one side or the other. Seems to be what happens when you bite yourself, even when eating something, and you accidentally catch your tongue. It’s usually just one side. There are of course terrifying tales of people biting through their tongues in accidents. I was lucky (if having one arm, just re-broken, falling on my backside in a hospital toilet, and now biting my tongue was lucky). I only took a small chunk out of the tongue. But when you do fall and bite, you tend to hurt yourself at both ends. And embarrassment if seen, could be worse.
(Continued tomorrow) 

Ideas Break Out

And here I will make an educated guess (rather than a bet), when you were of that school age of which I am currently referring to (in the current re-telling of my incident), you also sat through hours of class lessons of mathematical problems, also most probably, when covering algebra and calculus specifically (and some conceptual physics), wondering, “When am I ever going to need to use this?” In this case, the time was now! My mind was rapidly doing a quick calculations.  Not of the formulae, just running through anything else, rather than thinking about how much I was busting to go, and how close the toilet was. I had of course, despite my discomfit, briefly forgotten that since the morning, when I had been able to use both arms (even though one had been in a cast, a dry one) to pull up my shorts, my arm was now, not only re-broken, but it was also in a fresh and damp plaster of Paris, arm cast. And now, I only had one arm to pull my shorts down. My shorts, for which the elasticised waist was a little too tight. Hence the problem. And of course I was busting to go. Could I embarrass myself and open the door to ask for assistance. No. I knew I had to cope. I looked around quickly assessing what were my options What was available in a toilet. Check the room. (years later the television character ‘McGyver’ made this sort of problem solving passé. I actually earned the nickname myself briefly, when I developed a reputation on some film sets for solving problems very rapidly, using what was available, simply and effectively and, most importantly, without affecting or indeed, ‘blowing’ a budget (more on that in a later blog)).
However, right now as this story unfolds, I am twelve years old, in a large hospital toilet. Urgently needing to use the facilities (doesn’t that sound polite?) a schoolbag full of books and one useless arm. First option, could I use the toilet roll dispenser to help? Unfortunately, not. It was not a small wall mounted single roll holder that could have stuck out from the wall at about leg height, which would have allowed me to use the edge to catch the shorts. It was instead a massive block device, with a huge single roll on the dispenser. Maybe our family could have used such a dispenser at home? Given how quickly rolls of toilet paper could be used up (with eight children and parents using the facility) and, if you had gone in in a rush, you may have had to call out for more. If you were lucky there was some. If not the options were never great. If you were lucky, there may have been more actual toilet tissues available. If not. Then it was sometimes paper, or newspaper (not very often, fortunately). But whatever happens, don’t try and use weekly magazines. They use glossy paper, for some reason and it doesn’t wipe or flush properly.
(Continued tomorrow)

Breaking Out

So I left the nurse and doctor looking at me as I made my way down the corridor towards the exit, but more importantly for me to the bathroom. There had been a sign I had seen on my way to the x-ray. There it was. My pace had quickened and I walked up and saw the bathroom was empty, at least the vacant sign was showing on the slide above the handle. Yes, this door to a bathroom, in a hospital, had a handle. I used my right arm (fortunately this break was not on my preferred arm) and pushed down on the handle. The door flew open and banged on the back of the wall. All heads in the corridor turned to where I was standing a little sheepishly. “I er… didn’t realize it was  so easy to open”. The regular staff had obviously heard it before. Obviously, even though the toilet had a handle (in itself, not exactly smart thinking in a hospital), they would have had to make sure that the door, could be easily opened, by people on crutches, or in wheelchairs. And it was. Others turned back to what they were doing, just as someone behind me asked if I needed a hand. “I’m twelve I said I think I can….”, before I realized they were referring to me having my arm in a cast. “I’m fine thanks, I have got used to them”. I finished.
Fortunately there was no one in the toilet, that would have been even more embarrassing. When you go to use any public convenience and you turn the small door lock, do you also give it a pull test to check it has actually locked? How do you know if you rotate the vacant/engaged dial to show the room is vacant that the label hasn’t slipped off on the outside and nothing changes? However, being a hospital it was an enormous toilet room, with handles alongside the bowl to allow people who may have had manoeuvring difficulties, to get up and down from the seat. In fact it was probably about two thirds the size of the bedroom I was currently sitting in awaiting that punishment we had been talking about, before I was yet again side-tracked from the original story (You were wondering how this was going to get back to that story weren’t you? Sorry, but you will need to keep waiting while I finish off this particular side track).  I was inside the toilet and had shut the door quickly (also not so quietly) and locked it, when, I realized of course, I was going to have a little difficulty getting the shorts down and, as mentioned yesterday, with the proximity of the toilet so close, the intensity of the pressure was really piling up. There was no denying the probable existence of such a potential formula (To/R.x = PI/T.y.  see blog 25th August 2012). 
(Continued tomorrow)

Breaking Formulae

The word ‘bustled” comes to mind when the nurse returned with the doctor to recast my arm (bustle. def: To move about briskly, and often with a show of ostentatious behaviour). The doctor ‘bustled about’. Around me and particularly, the nurse. Making a clear show of his intention to do an ‘excellent’ job of aligning the arm he so recently broke. I had the feeling it wasn’t for my benefit, but more for the approval of the nurse. Working with her to align and re-cast my arm, I seem to recall he did most of the plaster application and finishing. They smoothly and quickly covered my re-broken limb with more of the Plaster of Paris.
The amazing thing about the old Plaster of Paris (Gypsum) was that, as it ‘worked’, the materials heated up, to start the drying out process. It gives you a particularly warm feeling on the arm (or wherever they had to plaster). In some ways it was very much like the feeling of resting the limb in a bowl of warm water (if it wasn’t for the weight). The bad thing was, if you rest your arm in a bowl of warm water, particularly when the weather is  cold, as it often was in Dunedin (where this break occurred), there can be a somewhat annoying side effect. Yes, it tended to make you want to pee. If you had just had a plaster cast put on, seriously, within a few minutes, it could easily make you feel the need to find a bathroom, somewhat urgently.
I sat there after the doctor and nurse had finished. My arm placed in a sling, and I had been given a couple of, whatever was the equivalent of a couple of Asprin’s back then. The nurse casually enquired who was taking me home. I said “The bus”. I climbed down from the bed and thanked them both. They both stood looking at me. “Sorry”, the nurse asked. “How are getting home from here?” “The bus. It stops right outside my house” I replied calmly, as I picked up the school bag. “Thank you” I was by now really wanting to find a bathroom. The warming effects of the plaster were starting in. Have you ever noticed how while you know you regularly need to urinate, you can often hold on, for considerable time. But, when you know you are within walking distance of a toilet, it suddenly gets harder and harder to ‘hold on’ and, there seems to be an inverse law (more physics and maths again) that the proximity of the bathroom facilities are directly proportional to the increase in the pressure of the bladder. No doubt you could, with some research, actually establish a formula of pressure where ‘Pi’ stands for pressure intensity, ‘To’ for Toilet, ‘R’ for range, and of course you would have to include time in the factor ‘T’. Resulting in something like the usual rules, you would have maybe; To/R.x = PI/T.y.  Although it would probably be ‘Time over Pressure Intensity’ instead, as anyone in a rush would confirm.
(Continued tomorrow)

"Them's The Breaks'

So while I sat with a somewhat blanched white face, pain running through my thinning left arm. Thinning every time I wore a cast as, if you had ever worn casts for any period, the heavy thick plaster of Paris wrapping not only weighed the arm down, but tended to make it sweat a lot (Use of the long knitting needles were great to ease the itching inside the cast). The doctor looked down at me and at least he appeared quite jovial. The nurse, returned with a wheelchair and a pillow, assisting me into it she gently cradled my re-broken arm and sat it on the pillow she placed on my lap. “So you’ll be right to wrap that up in a new cast, nurse” The doctor inquired. She turned and looked at the doctor. I couldn’t see her face, but I did observe his expression change ever so slightly. From the big smile, to a much more reserved closed mouth. “Yes, doctor. I will look after this ‘young’ man”. There must have been something in her expression, for he backed away slightly as he commented “Good. Er.. Good” He then did, what I later can recognize as the manoeuvre that was so well performed by‘Basil Fawlty’ (‘Fawlty Towers’ and the classic John Cleese). The moment when something has happened that shouldn’t have and Sybil Fawlty is giving Basil the ‘death stare’. In an attempt to get away from it, Basil would attempt to escape the situation with a distracting move to enable him to flee. So, with a clapping together of his hands as he stepped away, signaling that everything was under control. Then casting his eyes about looking for something to distract his attention. “Right, I’ll go and do something else then.” He left.
Now obviously the poor nurse was also having to show some respect to the doctor and, it would be twice as difficult for her, as she had to work there, whereas, I would be leaving and going back home once this was done. She started taking me down to the x-ray and on the way was cautiously enquiring how I was feeling. “A little sore, it hurt quite a bit, but it’s going away now.” I said meekly. “That’s good,” she said. “He must have got the damaged part spot on then?” She said encouragingly. “Yes”, I replied. “Will he have to do that again if it isn’t right?” I asked nervously, as we went into the x-ray. ‘No!” The nurse replied very firmly. “He certainly won’t be doing that again.” At the time I didn’t quite see the significance of that comment. But I suppose there must have been some very interesting comments later in that hospital between the staff, once I had left. I was even more surprised when after returning from the x-rays, the nurse took the x-rays over to the doctor who had his head down busily completing paperwork. He visibly jumped when he heard her voice.
(Continued Tomorrow)

Doctor of What? Shock!

I was starting to wonder where this ‘doctor’ had got his stethoscope. Was this like one of those movies where someone has snuck into a hospital to do something or to see someone secretly, or kidnap someone (yes even all those years ago it had already been thought of, even if today it seems it’s always to ‘assassinate’ someone)? They quickly get into the dressing room of the doctors or nurses area and grabbing a uniform coat and a stethoscope, they ‘pretend to be a doctor’ so they can move through the hospital without being noticed. Not really the best role if you think about it? Given that doctors are important, maybe this guy couldn’t avoid being stopped and asked to help? It’s only a kid with a broken arm after all. What would it matter if he messed it up? If he really wanted to pass through un-noticed he should put on a porters uniform and push an empty wheelchair through the hospital at a slow pace (and a bored expression on his face to look the part). No one would have bothered him.
With my upbringing, I had to show some respect to this apparently casual treatment by the doctor. As I commented (earlier blog) I had only gone in to the hospital alone (on the bus, remember, we never owned a car) for a simple check up of the cast and not expecting to have to undergo any further treatment. So to have this doctor not only think the arm wasn’t going to well, but that he had to change the cast, and, that he felt he had to re-break the arm as well. I wasn’t expecting that. One small but significant point. You may have thought I had forgotten to mention that the doctor, seeing a twelve year old in front of him, requiring additional medical treatment, should have consulted with my parents before undergoing this unexpected treatment. I didn’t mention it, because it didn’t happen (can you imagine that happening today?).
Yes, generally they spoke to parents to discuss options for anything medical, but, it looks like this doctor was pretty confident in his decision. And after all he was the expert (or at least he must have been in training to be one). After all he had that white coat on (and don’t forget that shiny stethoscope). It’s a good thing my parents weren’t there. I think I may have witnessed a slightly different general reaction (from my mother at least). I could imagine her reaction to this doctor, which would probably have included such phrases as “Butcher” and “Incompetent fool” in that very English of English voices she always had to berate anyone she considered was an idiot (or not English at the very least). And trust me, my mother found a lot of people she thought were idiots, so we got very used to hearing her accent (actually even after –cough cough – fifty plus years in New Zealand, she still has that very English accent). 
(Continued tomorrow)

"Trust Me, I'm a Doctor"

Without any further comment or question, the moment my head had turned away to look in the direction the doctor had indicated (admittedly I was a little confused by what he may have been referring to on the other side of the room, that could possibly have made my arm hurt), he made his move. Rapidly dropping my arm (which he had just said would need to be broken again and realigned) onto his raised knee and …. breaking the arm again. It was quick, it was loud and it worked. The arm snapped exactly where he had wanted it to. At least that was what he said, immediately after he felt along it. I must have gone a little white, with the sudden pain that slammed through my senses, and the nurse as well (gone white that is. I know she didn’t feel it.) But just to confirm it, he turned to the nurse and said. “Can we get this x-rayed again, before we put another cast on.” The nurse was still staring at the doctor (although let’s be honest what sort of a doctor was this? Where did he get his degree? A cornflakes packet?). Apparently the nurse was also somewhat shocked by what he had just done.
The doctor seemed somewhat oblivious, “Nurse, x-rays, on this, now” He snapped his fingers at the nurse. She nodded, turned and walked away. Leaving me sitting on the bed, slightly stunned. The doctor looked back at me confidently. “See, no need to wait for any anaesthetic. It’s all done. Over and done with.” Yes, my brain was saying. All done. Done in, it thought as the pain continued. He seemed very pleased with what he had just achieved. I wasn’t quite so pleased. I was sitting on the bed, holding my re-broken arm. I was not only coping with the sharp pain of the re-break, but I was also coping with the difficulty of the position I was in. I was only twelve. This was … a  30 plus (?) adult (Let’s face it, as a child anyone over twenty-five was not just an adult, but old), I was a ‘child’ who was young, inexperienced and unfortunately, since this was just meant to be a check-up on my broken arm, I was also alone. This was a doctor. An adult who was older (over 25), hopefully experienced doctor (although from that first distracted mis-identification of my broken arm, in choosing the right, not the left which had the cast on), and he was apparently surrounded by like minded professionals. At least, that was what I believed. He had on a white coat (Yes, they did actually wear the white lab coats back then, if they were a doctor), and, a stethoscope slung over the back of his neck (a real one). That very, real looking, expensive, defining piece of medical equipment that said loudly and clearly, simply by it’s casual lounging around the neck, “Look, I am a doctor. I have a shiny expensive stethoscope”. 
(Continued tomorrow)

Wait For It....

It is only a short sound, certainly. “Ouoohhh”. Short but certainly containing plenty of question and conveying concern. The doctor held my de-casted (?) arm and seemed to locate what he had been searching for, in comparing the actual arm, to the x-ray, which he had the nurse holding up. His manipulating hand stopped at a certain point of my arm and he applied various pressures, without looking at where he was holding, but focusing all his attention on the x-ray. Obviously feeling the ‘badly healing point’ he was looking for. I realized from where I was sitting, that the doctor had his mouth open and was moving is tongue around as he felt the damaged arm. Similar to when you sometimes observe a child concentrating as they draw, their tongue moves around as if guiding their pencil by its direction, remotely. He must have noticed me looking at his tongue as he drew his mouth closed (until then the nurse couldn’t have seen, or perhaps she was politely ignoring it. 
Once he located the area of his concern, he peered intently at the x-ray before nodding. “Yes”, he said. Then without really explaining to anyone, he said calmly and as clearly as if reading a menu. “We will have to break your arm again and realign it” Re-align it? That took a moment. Then the words “break your arm again” imposed them selves. That meant it was definitely not healing, as he would like. But realigning? … and breaking again? (This of course could be one reason today that, for serious breaks, they often consider surgery the first time around). I tried to remain calm. While I had had several broken bones, of which this was only the most recent, generally the actual breaking part, well, it hurt.  Briefly, but it was usually painful. “Oh”, I said. So will you need to prepare for that?” He looked down at my 12 years and smiled as does any adult knowing they know more than the young ‘child’ before them.
“Prepare what?” He enquired innocently. “Do I need an injection or something?” I asked.  “An injection?” he asked, as if he had no idea of what I was talking about. “Before you break it. You know, for an …anaesthetic?” I queried.  It was as if a light suddenly came on. “Well,” The doctor replied enthusiastically. “That is worth considering.” He held my arm up as he moved it closer to him. “You see, I was looking at this point here.” He indicated a point about half way along my forearm. “Has this been painful at all?” I nodded. “And…”, he said “here?” Indicating a point a little further down the arm as he moved the arm closer to where he stood at the side of the bed I was sitting on. I nodded again. “But what about over there?” He looked up past me and foolishly I turned my head away from my arm to look where he was indicating. (Yes, I had fallen for it.)
(definitely continued tomorrow)

Seeking The Right Break

However the doctor did eventually come back. Maybe he had gone to read up on the techniques for repairing a bad break that was healing poorly? I was hoping he had, given the misdirection we had just experienced with him asking the nurse to cut off the wrong arm (cut off the arm cast that was). However, he arrived back and went back to examining the x-rays. The solid plastic sheets with the ghostlike negative impressions (These were great for making painting stencils. They were always solid enough that you could cut out complex patterns). I had quite a significant folder of x-rays at this hospital (and had only lived in the area for a few years). In fact, there was a bit of a joke among some of the staff that they had to buy a new filing cabinet to fit our families medical records (Hey, there were eight kids in the family). However the doctor cast his critical eye over my x-ray on the wall mounted light board, then turned back to me. Pulling down the x-ray from the clip, he came around the bed I was sitting on (to the correct arm at least), and gently picked up the limb. He asked the nurse to hold up the x-ray while he manipulated the arm up and down. Apparently he was trying to locate the part he was concerned with. My wincing didn’t prevent his twisting the joints about. He set about somewhat enthusiastically compressing and poking the damaged limb. Trying to match the negative to the real thing.
Eventually like a blind reader scanning a Braille dictionary (Now there is an amazing skill) he seemed to find what he was looking for, and made that universal identifying sound only specialists (or doctors) can make. “Ahhhh!”. Not just any, ‘Ahh’, but, that very complex, ‘Ahhhh” (Count the ‘h’s”). The sort of “Ahhhh”, that takes all those years of studying, and qualifications, to be able to pronounce just right. That “Ahhhh” that says more than just, “found it!”. The sort of ‘Ahhhh’ that is meant to comfort and relax the patient. He made it. I started to relax. Then he made another sound. “Ouoohhh” That too is a sound that is somewhat universal, but doesn’t take as long, or as many qualifications to learn how to say. In fact it can be made by anyone in many ways and none of them suggest all is well. In fact it I have heard that sound made when cakes have fallen, People spill things, lose control of things, or when things have been dropped into toilet bowls (however, since mobiles came in to the world, lost keys in the toilet bowl was about the only other thing that caused that noise to be made in a bathroom), or people have encountered something they were not actually expecting (Note: Try never to make that sound when somebody proudly passes you their newborn baby. I honestly couldn’t help it).  It certainly says a lot in just a few letters.
(Continued tomorrow)

Breaking the Mould

Once my cast was off in several pieces, after the nurse had shown a little ‘strong arm’ technique to separate and split the cast apart (Perhaps it would have been better if she had made two cuts to it. Then it wouldn’t have hurt quite as much as she pulled it open). We waited for the return of the doctor. And waited. The nurse cleared away all the pieces of broken cast. The various messages and ‘John Hancocks’ (If you know who that is, then you know your trivia, or history, if you don’t check the footnote), scrawled across the outside surfaces. Various amusing drawings, diagrams, wishes and etchings.  After all, I came from a family who all considered themselves artistic, and still are. Once again masterpieces of artwork discard to the bin (Did this happen to Michelangelo? Just to his small plaster works I suppose) The nurse then got the fresh basin of water and plaster of Paris (Gypsum Plaster) bandages and we waited a little longer. The nurse then left to deal with someone else. I sat there cradling my un-cast and ‘poorly healing’ arm (apparently). 
The nurses moved about the Accident and Emergency department and appeared to be steadily processing and dealing with cases. People sat about, or lay on the beds, patiently. There was the odd shuffle of curtains as they were drawn across a bed space to conceal whatever was to occur. Occasionally muted voices whispered instructions and nurses came and went from some of the secluded areas, often returning with other equipment, nurses and young adults, who were probably the trainee doctors. I sat patiently wondering where mine had gone. Sometimes there was a differently dressed hospital employee who would be responsible for moving the beds, or patients in the beds, or in wheelchairs around.
Compared to today there seemed to be a lot less people and they were all busy. I seem to recall back then that the nurses were very seldom ever sitting behind the ‘nurses’ stations. And yet when you go in to a hospital Accident and Emergency today (that’s if you can actually get into one and are not parked in an ambulance outside in the arrival bay), it often seems there’s about two or three administration people, for every nurse (who is actually working), and about a dozen other hospital employees who don’t seem to be doctors, trainees or sometimes even medical staff hanging around? And then there’s the various construction workers (as all hospitals seem to be ‘expanding’ or ‘renovating’), cleaners (who don’t do windows, or cupboard/bench tops, either apparently) and nowadays, security (probably for all the people who get cranky because it’s taking ages to even get seen by one of the too few nurses, not to mention a doctor).
(Continued tomorrow)
John Hancock was an American statesman from Massachusetts and President of the International Congress 1775-1777. He was the first to sign the American Declaration of Independence and wrote so flamboyantly and large that he took up more room than he should have, as he had a blank space to write in. Allegedly he made the comment (unfounded) “The British ministry can read that name without spectacles; let them double their reward.” Hence the term “Put your John Hancock on that” has come to mean; to sign a document.

The Weight of Plaster

Kids today, if they break something, they have it so easy. We hadn’t even seen the concept of the lightweight fiberglass type materials of today. Many barely even think about the lightweight cast they have on their limbs today. We used to get the old plaster of Paris casts. Where a nurse or doctor would get the x-ray and examine the break. Poke or pull it back into about the correct position or place (and I do mean ‘about’). Even an injury with two or three breaks to it would often just be poked into place. Generally, to avoid having to do any surgery (Unlike today). Then, when they were reasonably satisfied the arm was about right, they would put it in a cast. They would get the bucket of water, a handful of white plaster bandages and dipping them into the water, they saturated the plaster on the woven bandages. They would start to wrap the damaged limb using the rapidly thickening plaster. You sat as patiently as possible. Then, as they wrapped the wet bandages over and around, building up a sloppy layer to finish the outside of the cast, the temperature would start to build up in the bandages. They always insisted you sat for a short time after they completed the cast. Just to make sure you didn’t break it before it even started to set.
For the number of breaks I had, I should probably have developed bigger muscles from all the weighty attachments I lugged around during my youth. And if you think I was joking about the way the doctor, or nurse would ‘poke’ the break back together. Let me recount this particular incident. There was a certain casualness from doctors some years ago (pre the modern day law suits and Health board worries).
I was carrying a cast on my left arm (again). Two weeks later, I attended the hospital for a follow-up to allow another x-ray for the doctor to check how the healing was progressing. Unfortunately, it was one of those moments when a doctor looks two or three times at the x-ray, then back to you, then back to the x-ray. All with a slightly worried expression, before finally announcing while reaching for my right arm, “No. Not good. Nurse, will you cut this off?”. The nurse looked as concerned as I felt. I raised my left ‘plastered’ arm to show which one the cast was on. “You mean this one?” The doctor looked up a little distracted. Before realizing his error. “Of course, that one. Just cut the cast off will you nurse. I don’t like the way the break is healing.” With that he walked off to talk to someone else. Hopefully to someone senior. Hopefully, for a second opinion? The nurse prepared the small circular cutter (like a home power tool set), but started to cut the cast away first with a thick handled pair of scissors, which chewed the plaster to pieces rather than cut it.
(Continued tomorrow)

Getting A Break

Most of those injuries were from accidents. Some from incidents close to home. Some from deliberate actions of one person or another. For example, one incident in later years at high school, when my ankle was snapped by a cranky school student (who was deliberately intending harm by his actions). I had been sitting outside the class just before the bell and he arrived late, looking angry. Foolishly I tried to joke, ‘Your mum catch you in bed with your girlfriend?” I asked. This wouldn’t be the first time (or last time) my humour would get me into trouble. ‘He muttered something and had stepped over my leg with one of his, before swinging it back to sandwich my ankle between his two legs. I felt the crunch, heard the bone snap, and the foot flopped sideways. But I just sat there on the stool I had been waiting outside the class on. I stated fairly flatly, ‘Donald, you just broke my ankle”. “Oh don’t be stupid”, he replied, “you’d be screaming in pain.” I sat there and thought about it. No, it wasn’t as bad as the previous two occasions, and, it obviously was a clean break as the ankle just sat there flopped to one side.
It was also immediately doubted by the teacher who, as the bell sounded for the start of the school period, came out, and asked what was going on, and told us to get into class. I explained I had just broken my ankle and at first she denied it. What? It was my ankle. How could she say it wasn’t broken? Obviously. The teacher knew better. I was told to stand up and (yep, wait for it) ‘Get into class, or face some detention”. Oh, yes, that’s always a good move. If it’s broken we’ll test it out. And if you fall flat on your face, we might believe you, but at least the threat of detention would make me move….. if I could. I then started to argue. “Mrs….(name withheld) my ankle is broken, look.’ I picked my leg up by the knee and ‘waggled’ it from side to side. The floppiness of the foot definitely wasn’t normal, neither was the blanched white colour that raced across my teachers face. I think she believed me now.
A quick bit of assistance, and following yet another trip to a local hospital, via the main office (who didn’t believe me either at first), the sick bay (the nurse was the same secretary who didn’t believe me in the office), then transported in the English teachers car (the only teacher on a free period). Sorry? Did somebody say what about an ambulance? We only requested ambulances for serious matters (also unlike today), I emerged with my ankle yet again encased in yet another plaster cast. Yes, plaster. The old plaster of paris bandages, which would not only hold the bones back in place, but would weigh the limb down.

Looking At The Breaks

What was amusing in the circumstance of the compound fracture, was the adults attempting to remove all those children present, who of course, all wanted to see the blood and the injury, so they could be ‘grossed out’ (as the American slang puts it). Then, the adults may not have realized it, but exposure to such scenes is very important in assisting the full development of all people. The need to react positively and in a stable and rationale way in such circumstances can only benefit others should the need arise. In my current work, I am often appalled at the ‘cringe’ factor shown by members of the public when just discussing such things. The lengths they will go to avoid such scenes is incredible. Yet at traffic crashes, people will ‘rubber neck’ but the moment their actual assistance is requested they will physically look away not wanting to catch your eye, in case they are given an instruction or asked for help.
I recall my older sister some years later, when they were living on the farm, and her husband and I had taken her three year old with us to the shed. We had to kill and prepare a sheep for food. We had explained everything that was to occur and why, and, thought everything was fine. It was for him. He returned to the farmhouse afterwards and happily passed the story on to his horrified mother. Now, she was of course horrified, not about the actual killing of the sheep, but that her three year old had watched it from start to finish and wasn’t phased by it. She was furious that we had not only allowed it, but, that we had taken him there with us for the purpose of him seeing the entire process. We then ‘copped’ it. When she got angry, my sister was fearful (almost as scary as my father, but more in a contained ‘potentially explosive contained manner’) she certainly told us off. We tried to explain the benefits. She explained to us the probable, potentially deep and lasting psychological shock to such a young mind which our actions and ‘unthinking stupidity’ (her actual words I believe), may have initiated. She appeared not to understand the benefits.
Now I would argue, had I been exposed to such a scene when as young, then, while I may still have thought that my brother was going to die, based upon the amount of visible blood (Cutting a sheep’s throat does produce a fair amount of visible blood as well), but I certainly wouldn’t have raced around trying to carry him home. Calm and sensible response to the necessary first aid would more likely have been the result. Or I would have learnt at least, exactly what my response may have been. It took a few more injuries and broken bones before I was able to react completely calmly to any injury I encountered. And I have had and witnessed many, many of those.
(Continued Tomorrow) 

Splints to Bind

So, there I am, back where we left me. Returning from the kitchen in our house, where the rest of the family and I had just sat through a quiet dinner (in itself an incredibly rare event) having been under direction to give me the ‘silent’ treatment during the meal (see blog 22^nd July 2012). Leaving the warm kitchen (ambient temperature, not feeling),where the pineapple upside down pudding was cooking in the oven. The pudding I would not be allowed, as I was sent back to the room, awaiting the return of my mother, injured brother and father. My father would then be dealing with my punishment for injuring my brother (even if it was an accident). The hours of waiting (a bit like the waiting for those of you following this blog), were already starting to take their toll. I was not just worried, but was suffering from the full extremes. The stress was steadily rising. Facing the unknown. What could I expect from my father?
Initially, the total panic, when I actually believed I had killed my brother (Accidentally) and realized I would probably be killed by my father, when it was discovered as with so many witnesses I couldn’t just walk away and disappear for ever (or could I? The thought was a fleeting possibility). My fears changing as I realized he was still alive and carried his small form limp in my arms as I ran back home with him. His head injury, undetermined, but the blood poured from the wound. Some first aid knowledge, or rather some calm application of the small amount of first aid I did know, would have been helpful. Realizing I should have just put a cloth over it and applied pressure, before moving him would have helped enormously. But there was that panic factor, and we were only young children. There were some techniques we as young children were aware. For example even at that age, I knew how to make a splint to protect a broken arm from moving.
Does that sound as bad as it seems? Our family had already suffered various injuries including several broken limbs between numerous members (myself included). But they were quite different to my brother’s current injury, as they did not (bar one), involve copious amounts of blood. And a compound fracture (of which I am referring to as the one that bled), while looking pretty nasty, is definitely colourful. The skin tones, the muscle tones, the bone tones, and of course the blood, all laid out. The first aid technique for treating a compound fracture can on occasion involve a splint, but when the injury I am referring to occurred (later blog), there were more than enough adults to deal with it, not just a group of slightly stunned children as had happened at the park with the stilt collecting my brothers head. 
(Continued tomorrow)

Delightfully Different Tastes

Meanwhile with the foods I was learning about in the kitchen and some of the techniques, I tried to introduce several different dishes at home (once or twice), without great success. If you are used to something, then it is sometimes easier to stick to that. At least that was the opinion of most family members faced with some of the ‘foreign muck’ (my father’s view), which I had tried to make. But for me, I was discovering there is a great variety in the wide, wide, world of food, and the more I experienced, the more I was fascinated. And, in later years, as I traveled and met people from many different cultures and groups, I realized just how varied the world’s diet really was. Even with the simple basics such as bread. The hundreds of amazing variations, way beyond, the sliced white that our lunch sandwiches were made of, and our mother regularly brought. For us as kids, we only generally saw the one type. I have come to experiment with many recipes over the years and today commercial white bread would be one of the rarest forms of bread I eat.
I have enjoyed very different foods. But, do you ever wonder how some of the food that is used today, was first eaten? Taste tested as it were? It’s easy to understand the development of most of the standard meats we consume. But even that has some strange variations. I know I will never eat a mangrove worm* again (no regrets there). Yet, some people actually like them. Though, there I suppose is a simple example of how some food types were discovered, eaten and decided as enjoyable or not. Then in other cases after watching someone consume something, they waited to see if they made it through the night, or, if they were found with their toes curled up after suffering a serious attack of poisoning. Cross that off the list and try the next bit?
And the different vegetables which are consumed around the world. When you look at some of the strange vegetables, their amazing colours, the weird and wonderful shapes. While some significant changes have occurred in the last few decades, to make certain foods look more appealing to purchasers (mainly the Western Cultures). There are many still happily retaining their original appearance (and perhaps for that reason they are ignored by Westerners). But when traveling overseas and seeing some of the enormous variety of types, shapes and colours, not to mention textures, I am always happy to try them out.
And if I had to chose my last meal (as I had been doing when I started with this tangent in the story about awaiting a punishment), I would be choosing some very different choices, to what I had known of, back then and pineapple upside down pudding is still pretty tasty. (Continued tomorrow)
*The Mangrove worm grows inside the  actual mangrove swamp tree below the bark, it can grow to over a metre in length.Eaten live, fresh from the tree. My guides assured me it was delicious. I couldn’t finish a half of one. It tastes just like…… the rotting tree and plant matter of the swamp (and it’s greasy, rubbery and long).

Secret Testing

In fact it seemed the kitchen was suddenly like a surgery, where something would be used once, handled once, and then immediately discarded, to be washed straight away (by a very ‘put in his place’ dishwasher, namely me), and demanded back, as the item would be essential to completing what ever dish the Chef decided he was engaged in. And he was watching me the whole time. If I even so much as slowed to wipe my brow, the glare would be felt, boring into the back of my head. I was half awaiting the arrival of a thrown knife from the chef (hoping it would hit into the wall, not my head). The pressure was on. Everyone was a little more intense that evening. Everyone was a lot more focused (The Executive Chef particularly, on me).  I was working phenomenally hard. Not just getting through the dishes, pans, utensils, glasses and bowls. He had me jumping through hoops, not just forward, but backwards and probably on fire (if he could have). Like I said. There are things you learn as you work (particularly in kitchens). One of them has to be who not to annoy.
 
Suddenly there was extra preparation to be done. Unusually that particular evening, The Chef decided not everything was already prepared, as it normally would have been. Suddenly the chef decided he wanted preparation for an additional dish. Omelettes. He yelled at me to get four dozen eggs prepared for the base in the next ten minutes. I washed my hands and quickly went to the cool store. I collected the eggs and returned to the preparation bench. The eyes of all the chefs flicked back to me constantly. Bench wiped down, Clean bowl from the stack, eggs on the left. As I reached for the first egg, I felt the focus from the Chef was suddenly doubled upon me. I certainly could not risk looking directly at him, to confirm this. Not without receiving further wrath, if not the potential for my marching orders from the kitchen (It really was that tense). 

I had paused, then realised what he was looking for. I crossed over to the shelf and picked up a glass bowl. Putting it on the bench between the eggs and the bowl, I then reached for the first egg again and broke it into the bowl, sniffed the contents to ensure it was not ‘off’ and tipped it into the main bowl. As I repeated the procedure I felt a slight relaxation of the tension. The Executive Chef then declared to the Sous-Chef, ‘It appears that one can learn to cook in this kitchen after all. Eh, Richard” Richard was smiling when he replied, “Yes, Chef. This kitchen and a good book. Lesson learnt I believe” (see blog Saturday 11^th 2012). I breathed a quiet sigh of relief, as I continued with the procedure. Pleased to have passed the test, which I had not been aware I was even taking part in. Lesson definitely learnt.
(Continued Tomorrow)

Learning About Food

I was pretty amazed by what you could do with a wok. Bit of oil, meat, then after just a few minutes, vegetables. Add a few noodles and serve. Within a few minutes you had a full meal. And the vegetables were cooked, but crisp! (Sorry mother, but your English cooking methods just didn’t do crisp vegetables, unless the power went off). I still see it as the most efficient, healthy, tasty and fast method of cooking (and for cleaning up), particularly for single people or couples. The wonderful ease of creating a flavour-some meal, in just a few minutes, with one pan, one heat source and a few ingredients. Marvelous. I was always trying to watch what the chefs were doing, and how. And not just with the Wok. The amazing, effective techniques of preparing, cooking and importantly, presenting the wide variety of dishes which were part of the tourist hotel we worked in. Occasionally I was distracted to the point of stopping what I was supposed to be doing to watch.
In fact one of the classic lines I recall, which caused a bit of an uproar in the kitchen, was when the Executive Chef (having yet another bad day), lost his temper with me for standing and watching two of the working chefs one day. He yelled out as he flung a saucepan lid across the kitchen (probably a little dangerous), which not only clattered into the overhead rack, dislodging various utensils and other pans, smashed into the wall (and cracked a tile it was discovered later) and crashed to the floor. The noise from that wasn’t so bad, except the doors had just swung open as a waitress entered the kitchen from the dining room, carrying plates, holding open the door for another waitress who was following. Just in time for the voice of the Executive chef to scream at me “You’re not in this kitchen to learn how to cook!” in a very loud voice.
Everyone froze. The saucepan lid clattered to the floor and didn’t just crash as one would hope, but did the full rolling round in an ever decreasing circle on the ceramic tiles like a rolling cymbal crash, speeding up and banging to a close. The chef glared at me. There was movement from the open door to the function room as the Maitre de and the Function Executive both entered and pulled the swing door closed. In a cool clear voice the Function Executive said, “Well, I hope someone ‘can’ cook, as we have a full house who now know people in this kitchen are not here to ‘learn’ how to cook.” Everyone (except myself and the executive chef) started laughing, before  continuing on with their work once they saw the face of the Executive Chef. I don’t recall my head coming up from that kitchen sink for the next three hours. And I am sure the saucepans and pans were thrown at the sinks in a dirtier and messier state than they normally would have been.

Leaning the Ropes (Utensils and Pans)

I walked back in to the kitchen a few days later, for my next shift and Richard (The Sous-Chef) looked across as I walked through the door to line up for inspection.  “So, perhaps our young assistant, can give us some advice about cooking eggs?” I froze mid-step. I looked at Richard who was looking sternly in my direction. My mind raced. Eggs? What had I done, what mistake before I left the other evening? Did I leave some eggs out or something? Had I wasted some egg mix? I ran through what I had done? I looked up as all heads turned towards me. Even the executive chef paused in what he was doing to turn and look. This was pressure of the worst kind. I turned red, I remember that. I probably started shaking, as I carried a certain nervous fear with me. And having worked in the kitchen long enough to already see several staff given their marching orders, my mind groped for an answer. I opened my mouth and my voice squeaked out “hunggh (or something like that)’.
I tried again. The stares were very intense until I realized what he was referring to. George Orwell’s dreadful experience in accidentally allowing a rotten egg into a large batch of eggs. He then had to race out and replace the entire lot, out of his own meager earnings before it was discovered, so he could retain his job. And his earnings, were a pittance.  But the need to keep the jobs essential.  I managed to croak out “Always check each egg before breaking it into the dish of ingredients”. I am sure that my voice started to trail off as I wasn’t sure if it was my place to say in a kitchen of mainly very qualified chefs.
The Executive Chef looked over to the Sous-Chef. The Sous-Chef looked to the two Working Chefs, who looked back to the Executive Chef. Then, they all laughed. I smiled. Relief flooded over me. The Executive Chef stopped smiling. I stopped smiling probably even faster. Then he said, “See, reading pays off. There, now you know how kitchens work…” he said. I started to smile and nodded. ‘Believe me it hasn’t changed”. He continued. I suddenly lost my smile. “Now get out there to the stores and get the tubs of potatoes peeled. As I headed out the back to the vegetable store room, I looked back to Richard, as he turned back to his station. I saw a wink visible only from my side and out of the corner of my eye the scowl on the face of the executive chef had returned.
The introduction to the world of foods and flavours definitely started with this job. I think the biggest discovery for me at this time was ‘the wok’. I had never seen one before (except in National Geographic®) and since we didn’t go out to eat, a Chinese takeaway or restaurant dinner encountering one had never happened before. 
(Continued tomorrow)

Do What You Saw.

So, it is very difficult to argue against the idea, that good work attitude and practices relates directly to good management. The teaching of skills and the correct guidance of labour is paramount to improving any work performance. It helps to have experienced good management before you yourself have to manage.  This was something I observed in my youth, but until I attained some years did not fully understand. Just as we are known to parrot the words of our teachers, parents and others, so are we copying much of their work ethic and behaviours. I gathered from my few actual conversations and experiences, that my father was raised in a fairly strict, and frugal, house. In regard to the frugal side, I recall hearing (from my mother) how his mother could spread butter on bread by, putting on a half pound and scraping off a pound. Then again, they had came through the war years of rationing and such so, it was not unexpected. That my father received punishment from his father and how he received that punishment was obvious (I had encountered these methods many times).
However in time I also saw what was wrong with the methods. Thus, in my own earlier experiences of parenting I tended to use my voice, rather than any physical contact, and have been told that I could be very scary in that way as well. The methods of my father were pretty much the methods of his father and that appeared to relate to the management practices of my father. He appeared to have learnt from those above him. He also appeared to have reached a peak at about the time I was entering high school. This may have been due to changes in ideas, methods and concepts and it may have been that my father did not wish to change his practices or that he did not understand the need to change. I had discussed this with him in later years, and while he had remained guarded in his responses, he suggested that he didn’t hold with some of the ideas. They were breaking with traditions (How I wished sometimes, he had broken with traditions, particularly with regard to dealing out punishments).
But there was no argument that he possessed his own ideas and attitudes to work ethics (and unfortunately leisure ethics, which my mother once said to me, may have been why he didn’t advance higher in his management role). He had his way, even if he didn’t necessarily encourage us as children in the most positive of ways for us to achieve to ‘his’ expectations. And back then, when reading George Orwells ‘Down and Out in London and Paris’ I saw a lot of similarities in those attitudes to work, particularly when times were hard, or situations desperate. Reading this wasn’t only introducing me to the ‘way of the kitchen’ as Richard the Sous-chef had suggested, but it was actually re-enforcing much of the required concepts towards setting out to achieving a goal, and, succeeding at it.
(Continued tomorrow)

Respect The Boss. Sometimes.

So despite any number of ‘colourful’ sayings (and many of them related to colour, unfortunately) that may have been uttered by my mother, we grew up treating all people as humans first. Regardless of religion (The word ‘heathens’ often escaped my mother’s lips, but that was obviously the nuns talking). Regardless of colour (though my mother was quick to suggest any link between race and behaviour, but that was probably the nuns talking still), and in New Zealand there were many people from all over the world that she could choose from. But no matter what we heard, we regarded age as the most significant aspect. Respect for any one older than us, was paramount to our mother and father (unless our mother referred to them as a “silly old……” That was my other talking). The attitude of respect to those older than us, tended to affect what we did with our work. If our father told us to do the job, we did it (yes, we know the reason why). If our supervisor told us to do the job we did it. Even when they were wrong.
Even though I found there were many ‘types’ of bosses out there. And many of whom should never have been in charge of people, or actual businesses. Yet several of those bad managers helped me to understand why my father had been the way he was. There are some people built for leadership, who, while they could probably run the country better than any who have done (With the exception of the great ‘Big Norm’ may he rest in peace, along with the mythology of who he was. Those who don’t know who ‘Big Norm’ was, missed a very special man in New Zealand history), or better than those who currently do run the country. These real leaders I refer to manage projects and people effectively and create wonderful trust and respect and accomplishments. In the last twenty years working under some one fifty different bosses and managers, I can honestly say I have only worked for four ‘bosses’ who were excellent leaders. That’s not saying one in twelve people make good managers. I’m simply saying that four people knew what they were actually doing. Most I have worked for, are simply managers utilizing managerial practices, not demonstrating management skills and most of them demonstrate that they can’t manage those skills well.
I have been asked why I don’t want to manage people. I don’t honestly believe that I possess the necessary skills. I have had those skills demonstrated to me by people who do know how, and by many who don’t, but thought they did. I have seen the required difference and recognise what I do not have. I am definitely a worker. I love my current work particularly, and I love to give one hundred percent in that work (yes, I know I have a reputation for giving one hundred and ten percent, but mathematically you really can’t do more than one hundred percent at any one time).
(Continued tomorrow) 

Properly Said

It would not be the only time we were to hear our father mutter, or say with a strained tone, “If you want something done, you might as well do it yourself”. I often thought this was probably heard a lot around his place of work. Was it him saying it there, or could he have been parroting other superiors? It happens. I am sure you have all heard yourself saying things you possibly heard from your parents, or, other adults. It can be a frightening moment when without intending it, you are standing looking askance at the mess in your child’s room and without meaning to, you blurt (Blurt def:To speak unexpectedly and suddenly) out. “Clean your room up. It’s a pigsty”. Immediately hearing the echos from your parents or grandparents or family members etc. You know what I mean. You have parroted that which you have heard most often, in a situation where you do not need to be creative. Just filling the void with what has been said before. This can be a very frightening moment in any adults life. When you were young you probably promised yourself, or told whoever you have just copied, “I’ll never say that to my children”. Or, if you never intended to have any children. “You’ll never hear me say that to anyone”. Then before you know it, you’re spouting the phrases, dropping the terms and parroting others before you.
My mother had several phrases, most of which I have never had to use, but she used to come out with them. “This place is worse (messier) than the inside of a Chinese brothel”. I never asked her, till years later, how she new what the inside of a Chinese brothel even looked like. Then there was the time I came out of school (age about 6 and a Catholic school) saying, I never wanted to go to heaven. My mother apparently was surpised and when she asked why, I said, “Because it stinks.” My mother was perplexed. “What makes you think it stinks in heaven?”, she asked. ‘I replied (in tears apparently) “You always say our room stinks to high heaven”.  My mother, although raised predominantly by the black, cowled nuns of England, had many sayings, which I can’t imagine she picked up from them. She must have been parroting others, but who?
No doubt when you first start working with adults you pick up many of the clichés and common sayings in use. And I cannot imagine it was too different for my mother. Coming out from England at 16 years of age, on the slow boat, to arrive in New Zealand and starting work among the parochial colonials. Hearing the many derogatory and probably slightly racial sayings at such a young age. Being influenced by senior persons in work and training. And other senior persons in their leisure. No doubt pleadings from her chaperones and carers, requesting she not listen to such comments and terms, but how long before she started quoting the speakers. Parroting their speech (in her best English accent of course).
(Continued tomorrow)

Expecting It Done Properly?

Hey, we were only kids. So, yes. If you needed an ‘adult’ job done properly, then, as an adult, perhaps you did need to do it yourself, so it would be done properly, to your satisfaction. Or, better than that, do it ‘with’ the kids, and provide genuine guidance and instruction, so they would do it properly, and, be encouraged to do such work again. I think adults often forget that. There are several things to consider. There is obviously the size difference between an adult and a child. Most tools for example, are designed for the hand of an adult, not the small hand of a child or teenager. Remember as a kid seeing, or, even better, being given a ‘toy’ tool set. Real metal and wooden tools, but the tools were your size. Certainly not great quality to really get into serious working, but it was exciting. At least until your parents discovered several nails partially banged into the wall (usually one or two bent partway along their length). Not to forget the indentations from the head of the hammer, as it usually took a few swings to ‘get your eye in’ (we won’t discuss the punishment for that now, as your still waiting for me to finish the other punishment story).
Then, there is the experience difference. Even with something as simple as, how to visualise a completed project. Never forget that a child’s imagination is generally a little different to the informed imagination of an adult. Simple proof. Ask a child to describe a tree. You know what a tree is, what it looks like. But ask a child, and they will probably start with words such as, ‘Green’ or ‘Big’ or ‘Wavy’. So explaining the isometric drawing view (yes, I did technical drawing at high school) of the table you are planning on building/painting/distressing (trust me, the kids will be distressed if left to sand down a table for a day and a half by hand, I know from experience) may be well out of the average child’s perception. Unless you are prepared to build an exotic table with trellised ends and wing carvings. The child is likely to push imagination beyond actual ability.
And then that lesser ability. There are issues with concentration and focus. The kids may have wished to do the work (keen and eager at the start anyway), but were they actually capable of doing it? Or were they being placed in the situation similar to that of any child labour of third world countries (not too extreme a comparison)? Where the children are seen simply as a working unit. The old argument ‘it builds character’ may hold true on minor skill building. Or, perhaps when introducing a new technique, or method to a young person. But if you just used the children to get a job done, then could you truly complain if they didn’t achieve what you were expecting, had you done the job yourself or paid for a tradesman to do it?

If You Want It Done Properly...

It was not to be of course. Perhaps the age of conning other children to do the work which you were supposed to do, was past (even back then). Then again, perhaps we had all been raised on the same stories back then, so, other kids wouldn’t fall for it. Stories unfortunately which most young people today just don’t seem to read (maybe it’s time again for the con?). Despite our biggest hopes, we quickly realized Mark Twain must have been wrong. No child was going to bring us their favourite toy, and take over the scrubbing with the wire brush. It actually hurt, but we continued valiantly (knowing what our father would say if we didn’t). My brother and I were really doing our best. There was the odd comment from people walking past, when observing what we were doing, and after looking about and seeing our parents were  no where about, would ask “Is this a punishment or something?”. We would look at them hopefully. If they didn’t do this to their child during their holidays, maybe they would like to adopt us (kidding)?
It was already heading well into summer and the temperatures were climbing as high as 28 degrees Celsius (about 82.4 Fahrenheit), which for Dunedin was really getting hot. Remember ‘average’ winter temperature was just1degreeC.-(33F) and we won’t go into wind chill factor. However the days were definitely heating up. If, we had got out and started straight after breakfast, we could be finished by lunchtime. And then we could have the afternoon off and the next day doing what we wanted. Had we got straight into the work, and hadn’t wasted any time. Had we started straight away. Generally, we didn’t. We messed around. Delaying the starting. Looking for something to wear on our hands. Debating which brush did a better job. The long handled one, or the short one. Then we had to find our hats. Then we had to examine what we had done yesterday. Then we would hose off the wall to see if we had got it all off. Let’s be honest. We were not trying to do the job properly. We were manually procrastinating. We were definitely not wishing to continue doing the work. So we would waste more time and the day would pass into afternoon.
Then suddenly it would be half way through the afternoon and we had not done any where near the amount of scrubbing we should have. Knowing our father would be home before too long, we would start to rush the scrubbing. Causing more injuries to the back of our hands and consequently stopping more and more often for some form of treatment (Washing the knuckles under cold water). Before long Father would arrive home. Surveying what we had (or more to the point), or had not achieved with the day. The comment that was stated next was still to do with doing the job properly but was more in the form of “If you want something done properly, do it yourself”.
(Continued tomorrow)

Doing It Properly

However, I was discussing the knowledge all members of our family had, about doing your job properly. About earning the respect of those you work with. And of always giving a one hundred percent effort. It was instilled in us early, and I don’t mean the comment parents throw out of, “If you’re not going to do it properly, don’t do it all”.  They never really meant that. Because in most cases, in our family, they really needed us to do it properly straight away. I remember a school holiday where we were told we had to help our father repaint the front wall. The wall was done in the style called ‘rough cast cement’ where a thick cement mix containing small pebbles is plastered over the base surface, in this case bricks, and painted. In this case, with a paint that was badly flaking. So we were informed as the holidays started, that some of our time would be in repainting the wall. That could be fun, or so we thought.
Unfortunately, it certainly wasn’t just a matter of repainting. It was a matter of washing down the wall first. Actually it was a matter of ‘scrubbing’ down the wall with sugar soap, to remove the old mould and lichen growth. That took two mornings to reach the far end from the gate. Of course we had to do both sides of the gate, and both sides of the fence, and, the house side included several cacti in the garden around the wall. We were already loosing interest after two mornings, and knowing our father would be wanting it finished before the weekend meant it had to get done. When he arrived home that evening and had a look, he told us we had done a good job it was ready for stage two. ‘The painting’ we thought enthusiastically.  But no, to do the job properly, we first had to brush the loose paint and rough cast cement with wire brushes to clean it off, before it could be painted. Which meant another couple of days of scrubbing.
Our young arms were already tired from the washing, and now we had to do it all over again? With wire brushes? It was not a fun holiday experience. I secretly hoped for a Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens) Huckleberry Finn moment. But there were no other neighbourhood kids coming up to ask if they could have a go. So we started in with the wire brushes, having to clean up the loose paint. It didn’t take long before we realized that small young people don’t necessarily have a lot of strength in their arms, and despite our best efforts, were soon skinning our knuckles, as the brushes would slip from our hands as they rapidly tired. And knowing our Father would be back that evening to inspect, we kept at it. Although, we were already looking for any possible reason to be distracted from the task. Any reason. Please!
(Continued tomorrow)

What Security Issues?

So between what I was doing badly and what my employer the chemist was doing badly, I was soon told to stop working there.  It was funny, thinking back, as there, I had been given prescription drugs to deliver by bicycle, riding around the suburb, often until dark. A very young cyclist, known in the local area to be doing the local drug deliveries, carrying unknown types of drugs. Delivering to unknown addresses. Not an issue I suppose. But could you imagine that happening today? Back then of course, it had been a little different, compared to one of my other jobs such as a telegram delivery boy.
At the young age of around 14, I think it was. There we would report to the office of the telex machines at the post office. Not faxes, or email. There was no direct connection to computers, lets be honest here, for those that don’t think about history. There were no home computers. And home computers, that were integrated (Computer Telephony Integration - CTI) to the telephone system? Well, that didn’t happen till mid 1980’s (makes me sound old doesn’t it, but it really isn’t that long ago). While the telephone was the only quick form of verbal communication, even then, people needed to be informed, or have official confirmation of some things, even faster. If it was a business matter (international contract information, etc), the actual printout from the telex may be required to be delivered to the company.
Then it was put into an envelope passed to the ‘delivery boy’ (we were never called anything as glamorous as ‘bike couriers’, that name didn’t come in till years later), who ‘hot footed’ it to the required address. Now ‘Hot footed’ that’s a great term that came about in one of two ways. Myth has it, there was an native cure which involved hot paste on the soles of the feet to free the bad spirits, and the other, was the setting alight of the shoe laces of a visiting dandy, who while jumping about trying to put out the flames, would be so embarrassed, they would then leave town quickly. Whatever, it implied immediate departure.  And depart rapidly we did. Then, onto our bike, through the traffic to the required address. In Dunedin, that meant riding up and down a few hills and crowded streets. But telegrams were the fastest way to get written information from one place to the other. I brought this up to refer to a similar situation to the Chemist job. It was not unknown for the telegram delivery boys to be given very large blank checks to deliver around town. Hospital wages checks or such. And they were blank, just a value written on the check. I recall once being handed an envelope containing a blank check for 128,000 dollars and told to race it to the ANZ bank before 4pm through town. Frightening really. The uninformed responsibility that people would thrust on a young person without thinking of the security risks.
(Continued tomorrow)

Dreadful Conditions… Even Today

Down and Out in London and Paris by George Orwell (1933), was a wonderfully informative, horrifying and brilliant introduction to what kitchens during the depression era of Europe were like. The only thing it reminded me of, or that I would consider similar, was the work of stable hands in the horse racing industry (but even today they go through much the same hell in many stables, as they did during the last century). The book highlighted the constant abuse, by most senior staff, the rigour of the long hours, the very hard work and dreadful wages (yes, even today that hasn’t really changed for either industry). The suffering, by many working in those appalling conditions, whom, in most cases, did the job because they loved the subject (or the animals). It was the dreadful subsistence of the worker, for the pleasure of the wealthy (Yes, even that hasn’t changed). But this was a time, when any work was valued. For those who know their history, post war (WWI) and the conditions then in Europe were pretty dreadful. There was massive unemployment and the value of any currency was very low (just like today’s currency in Europe). The dreadful climate of the time which was affecting the growth of all crops, and the related illness’s, including, the post war Spanish flu pandemic which had killed some 50 million people in just 18 months. Yet if there was work, you took it, there was no welfare to allow people to sit around and take handouts. Even for a handout, they would have to queue for hours, and it may be only mothers, or only adult men permitted, waiting for hours in all conditions for a single meal (if they were lucky) or piece of a bread.
I could certainly relate to the conditions Orwell wrote about. Being from a large family, we were certainly aware of the cost of everyday living and the need to have a job and to do a job properly. One of my first jobs, apart from a newspaper run, holiday pet feeding jobs, or grocery packing job, when I was younger, was as a bottle washer and delivery boy, for a chemist shop. It involved soaking the glass pill bottles that had been brought back in for refills, to loosen the labels. Then after properly washing them clean, loading them into a warm air-drying cabinet. This part of the job wasn’t too interesting, and there were a couple of young chemists working on the same upstairs level making some product (?). I was always wandering over to talk to them (not what I was supposed to be doing). Then, when I was supposed to finish for the day, the chemist was getting me to ride out and do the home deliveries. Can you imagine that happening today? A twelve year old being given multiple orders of prescription drugs to ride around the surrounding suburbs on his bicycle, delivering the medicine to those needing it. Some nights after finishing, the delivery took an hour or two to finish (unpaid). And in Dunedin, it was often dark by the time I finished, in the winter months.
(continued tomorrow)

By the Light....

I was curious. I took the book with me and started reading it before I got to my bike to ride home. Home was about three miles away. The book was instantly engaging. I got to the point where I was reading until I ran out of building’s back light.  Walking the bike beside me. Then I was stopping to read the next page as I came under a streetlight. I really wanted to read it, but having to ride home as well. Soon I was riding to the next streetlight and reading a page, before riding on to the next.  I probably should have just put it in my bag and ridden quickly home. But it really was so appealing. I wouldn’t be able to read it easily when I got home. Even though sharing a room with three brothers had by this time changed (and thanks to two sisters moving out of home…thank you, thank you). I shared a room with just one brother, who was old enough to appreciate things such as The Goons’ radio show and other interests.
However reading till late was not encouraged and my brother would be needing to sleep. And since it was close to 11pm by the time I got home with the book, my family was already retired for the evening. Any noises, and our mother would out to check, to see if any lights were on. I had tried reading by the torch under the blanket, but usually it became too stuffy, as the blankets were the old scratchy, heavy woollen kind with the red stitched edge. “Warmth by weight” we used to say. Those living in tropical climates should appreciate the difference of sleeping under a thin sheet. It would be so much easier to lie under a single layer with your favourite book. Mind you, the light from the torch would be far more obvious. At some time, I came up with the idea of going to the toilet, once everyone had gone to bed. Sitting and reading there, for as long as possible was much easier as I could just leave the light on.
I learnt very early on, when spending time sitting on a toilet and reading, it is always better to put the lid down and sit on that, than perching on just the seat, as it tended to kill the back of the legs, requiring me to stand and stretch the leg every so often (Early DVT issues? – Deep Vein Thrombosis or Did Value Text). Occasionally this reading space was interrupted, by one or other of the family needing the bathroom. Then I would have to stop reading and make my way back to the bedroom where my brother lay mouth open and usually face hanging part ways off the edge of the bed, occasionally snoring, snuffling and breathing noisily. Nowadays, I continue to be a light sleeper but have been told (previously) that when I snore, no one can sleep or read.
(Continued tomorrow)

Discovering other tastes

Whether from the Greeks, Italian or Chinese greengrocers, I’m sure it wasn’t that my mother didn’t like (or couldn’t afford) some of the more foreign looking fruits and vegetables that may have been there, I just don’t think she knew what to do with them and maybe, introducing them to the family as a trial, may have met some stares and confusion (and no doubt out and out rejection) The brussell sprout incident may have been nothing in comparison to introducing an ‘eggplant mousaka’. I can imagine the comments that would have come from the table.
I started working in professional kitchens when I was around 14 years old. I very quickly learnt two things. One, I learnt a lot about this thing called ‘flavours’. Discovering that you can create some amazing flavours with the incredible variety of meats, vegetables, fruit, and these other things called ‘seasonings and spices’ that are out there in the world (and what a world of seasonings and spices I have discovered over the years). And Two; I didn’t want to be a head chef in a commercial kitchen for a hotel or resort, for all the tea in China. Every chef I met while working in these kitchens was angry, spiteful and aggressive (Gordon Ramsey definitely wasn’t the first). But regardless of this, there were some wonderful chefs, Executive and Head Chefs (the undisputed authority in the kitchens), Sous Chefs (the busy second-in-command) and others I encountered, Chef Steward, Working Chef, Chef's Assistants. I did this a lot, as the main kitchen I worked for, finished at Working Chef, but mostly I was also the chief dish-washer. And most of the dishes and pans were washed by hand, with a rinse sterilizer to finish.
I was shown some wonderful foods, methods and techniques by the various chefs, and some thanks should go to (‘Rickhard) the German born Sous Chef who had been working at the restaurant for the last two months. Despite what our ‘Executive Chef’ screamed at me at times, he understood I tried hard, even if I made the odd mistake and, based upon casual discussions and questions I asked, while they sat around discussing the next menu, or drinking a bottle of wine at the end of their evening, as I finished cleaning up their mess of pots, pans and utensils, he realized I was actually interested in food and, that I was a keen reader. As I was leaving one evening, after finally clearing up the kitchen some time after 10pm (I was only paid till 9pm when the kitchen closed, but had got behind at the start of the evening). He passed me a paperback book. It’s cover appeared somewhat ‘tatty’. He said I should read it, after I complete my homework. He said, “It is the book, to put kitchen work in perspective”. It was a paperback copy, very well thumbed, of George Orwell’s ‘Down and Out in London and Paris’(1933).