Quick intro: Medical Student, final year (graduate so a little older that usual, but just a little), written finals were a week ago, this wednesday we finished OSCEs, thursday drunk, friday panicking and writing a presentation, saturday delivered presentation, now sunday and have arrived for my Elective. Phew.
Ok. I have arrived in London (kindly dropped, with my kitchen sink, by my Mother et al, traditional student style). I am in a modest room in a building from the 1930s and 1970s at the same time, with built in teak furniture that makes me feel like Poirot would have stayed here. It is boiling hot, as with this kind of accommodation instead of risking complaints from people being cold they just try to boil you to death in your sleep. Dead people don’t complain much. I can hear occasional noises outside hinting to the existence of others, but I seem to have come over all pre-adolescent and don’t much fancy venturing out to meet anyone. Just in case.
There is a 30s style balcony adjoining my room to my neighbour, with whom I share a bathroom. And it literally is a bathroom- no shower. And again, approximately 50 degrees C. No need for a towel, I guess the water will just evaporate straight off me when I emerge from my bath. I’m not sure if it’s a relief that the door to the shared balcony is sealed, due to the balcony being deemed dangerous. On one hand this means I won’t have an awkward encounter with my neighbour whilst in my knickers but on the other hand I’m now unsure as to the structural integrity of the building. Maybe I will move my bed away from the window.
I am on the whole pleased with where I have ended up. Shame that on closer inspection of the paper work I have only booked four weeks rather than eight. Now, the minimum period I have to be here is six weeks, but having only saved the money for four weeks, even if they let me have the room for the mandatory extra two weeks I may have to think of creative forms of payment. Having been accepted for a grant from the Association of Reconstructive, Aesthetic and Plastic Surgeons, I should be home and dry. However there is no actual sign of the money as yet. And the fifty quid that the Medical Womens’ Federation sent me, whilst a lovely gesture, will buy me a mere 72hours more in my accommodation. And anyway, I already spent that money on books. It’s now that I’m starting to appreciate that the Mother is only a bus ride to meet in Stratford, that there are likely to be supermarkets in Stratford and that I have a backpack. I’ve started practicing my ‘starved’ look.
Recent successes include getting internet that works and in theory won’t cost me an absolute fortune. I’m wondering if I could perhaps start writing this as a blog, rather than just an exercise in staving off loneliness (yes, I am essentially having a chat with my laptop right now). Other successes include that I don’t seem to have forgotten to pack anything (famous last words). Taking a leaf from Bukowski I am now having a mug of wine and indulging in a little writing. It is pleasant. With the window open to balance the boiler-room atmosphere all in all life seems ok. Lucky to be in a place where people are at the other end of a mobile phone and I can happily add any thoughts or feelings I have to the existence-vomit that is Facebook. This isn’t very Bukowski at all.
I did a little exploring of the building after the Mother left. There is a basement and I was again pleasantly surprised that it lived up to expectations in the best way. It was super-creepy. Peeling paint, low ceilings, corridors that go on to dead ends and unmarked but heavily bolted doors. The laundry room is fantastic. Two large very new washers and dryers, an old ironing board with no cover, giving a somewhat skeletal impression, all in a concrete lined room full of vents, pipes, massive old ceramic sinks and some smells that could tell stories. Decomposing stories. The best bit of all this by far were the signs on the doors as you exit the clattering lift into the basement: “North East London Foundation School”. Epic near miss.
In a bid to try and do something constructive, I’ve just had a flick through the ‘Elective Study Log Book’. I actually laughed out loud (to coin a phrase) when I read the sentence “We want you to think about what is happening to you”. With the best will in the world I now feel like Bruce Willis in Twelve Monkeys. The rest of the book is some space for ‘what I has done today’ style reflection and advice about not getting Malaria. It has just occurred to me that I have no idea how prevalent Malaria is in London. Not very, I think. You’re always hearing about how East London is rife with TB and HIV and all the exotic conditions. Perhaps my risk assessment should have been more thorough. Ah, the risk assessment. That was amusing. Obviously it is geared at people going to Somalia, but it’s the same questions for everyone. It asked what my planes were in case of military coup. I really struggled trying to envisage a military coup in the east end. But you never know. For all questions in this vein my answer was “Go to my Mother’s”. Mummy will save me. Shit, I swear I just saw a mosquito cross the wall above the desk. Shit, shit, shit I should have thought about Malaria prophylaxis. I don’t have a mosquito net!
Ew, after chasing an imaginary mosquito I just found a dribbly stain on the wall. I am most definitely in limbo between the first and third world. Trapped in the second world. Fuck! I just squished the bugger!! I didn’t imagine it! Just squished a mossie against the wall!! I haven’t been here for four hours and I’ve already contributed a stain to the wall. I’m feeling increasingly more at home. Is it weird to preserve the squished mossie between some sellotape as evidence? Nah, I’m sure this is what they have in mind for us to hand in at the end of this whole thing. God help the people in actual hot countries, their mosquito project is going to be much bigger than mine.
On second thought, my mossie project may well be up to scratch. Just got another one and boy it was juicy. Have pressed them onto a piece of white A4, with a view to eventual binding. Have also closed the curtain as a compromise between Malaria (or just being eaten) and being cooked alive. I have also found a problem with the room. It’s the desk. It’s trying to either kill me or hint something. In order to type I have to rest my wrists on the edge of the desk, which it appears is razor sharp.
I shouldn’t complain, at least I have running water. And it’s so hot you can make tea from the tap. Good job I’m next to a hospital.
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