Tuesday, June 08, 2004
What's in a (brand) name?
(written at : Heathrow Airport. The wonders of laptop computing.)
Mr. Miss. Ms. Dr. Sir. Mdm.
I remember the days (now, alas, long since gone) when, caught up with the fervour of my compatriot medical students, I anticipated the Change with a childish eagerness. (no, not menopause. The far less painful and distressing, but quite possibly just as hormonal, and much more alcoholic metamorphosis from Mr to Dr.) An almost insignificant change of a single letter, yet carrying with it so, so much.
Yet today I pen it effortlessly and thoughtlessly whenever I fill in a witness statement, or a visa application. It has become part of me. I don't (I must confess that I did, for about a day) marvel that something is different now. I don't step back and think wwaaaah. I'm so clever! Look. look, everyone see.)
Most of the others had their bank card details changed the day they graduated. Mine happened after HSBC somehow caught up with my past three years later. (how?? How did they find out?!?!?)
It's not because I abhor my job, or even that I hero-worship it. It's just that the day I started work, all the illusions vanished. Doctors... are just people. There were good seniors. and bastard seniors. There were clever senior sisters who could help. and stupid ones who were simply obstructive. A junior doctor isn't much more evolved than a medical student in the food chain of the medical world. (methinks it actually ranks slightly lower, under the heading of "Plankton and other boring between-meals snacks")
(except for the really handsome blokes of course, who apparently had furtive sweaty sex in the treatment-rooms and broom closets with student nurses and physiotherapists)
I remember the day I earned my stripes. (in the form of a "D") It was the day I learnt that I'd passed my MBBS. The girlfriend was sweet that way, she came with me to share my joy / grief at the rather anticlimatic "marks handout" procession. Line up. Scan list. Oh my God, I can't find my name (amongst the two million others). Panicky question to the secretary. Did I pass? Pause. Eternity passes. Yes you did. No, you don't understand. Did I PASS?
YES you DID. Oh! Really? GO AWAY.
After that, the (now-ex) girlfriend's sister's girl friend and the sister met up and sprayed me with a small bottle of champagne, and acted excited and happy. It was rather unpleasant
When I meet people who begin to rant at me about "You Doctors"... "think the world of yourselves..." I pause to wonder. Do we really?
Funny thing is, I wouldn't really mind trading that Single letter for a shot at yesteryear again. Oh, to be a carefree student again. Or even an M-16 toting braindead pawn. yeah. ougha ougah.
I had a dream some time back about working in a big blue-glass building. With my own little white-cardboard walled cubicle, and my own little potted plant. And my nice white PC. Everything glowing faintly blue through the cold filtered light of the glass wall that formed the third wall of my office. Can you tell what my favourite colour is? Laughs.
And attending the odd meeting in a open-fronted room with a large glass table in it. It was a nice dream. Very calm, slightly surreal. Peaceful. And when I woke up, I wondered for quite a long time. What if...?
When people rant at me "You doctors..." I look at them again, and realise they're not really talking about "us doctors" at all.
They're talking about themselves.
It's like when people say "I've dated a model" or "I've dated an air hostess". (or "I've dated a doctor")
(or, as in The Girl Next Door, "I've dated a porn star".)
They're not really talking about the person they've dated.
(The model. The stewardess. The porn star. They're all people too... not just brand names. I caught the beginning of Shallow Hal on the plane, and it had the same message : that fat / ugly people are people too. Funny how nobody ever proclaims that he/she's dated a fat person.)
And usually the bit immediately appended is a desultory "but she/he was..." one-liner. Often it's not even that.
They're talking about themselves.
I'm probably raising yet more hackles as I write this. I seem to have developed a knack for that (wryly) after the DW farce.
But I have to write this. Us "doctors" are just normal folks. Some of us don't want to wear the givenchy label. And some do. It's the same way some guys (and girls) want to drive Ferraris, and everyone I know wants a club membership.
What, I wonder, about people like Sir Elton John, or Sir (cough) David Beckham? Is it just another part of themselves to them. A tiresome, time-consuming scribble before their name when filling in customs immigrations forms, or bank-details and bills... or do they wear their titles with preening, narcissistic pride?
I have a funny feeling that... the only people who really care about it... are us common folk without our "peerage"es (funny that. Peers. To describe anything but).
Question : Just how big is that chip on your shoulder? :)
(Mine's a nokia! mine's an eriksson!)
*****
Ok so it's probably pathological that one of the first things I'm doing, upon returning to sunny Singapore, is writing. :\
Mr. Miss. Ms. Dr. Sir. Mdm.
I remember the days (now, alas, long since gone) when, caught up with the fervour of my compatriot medical students, I anticipated the Change with a childish eagerness. (no, not menopause. The far less painful and distressing, but quite possibly just as hormonal, and much more alcoholic metamorphosis from Mr to Dr.) An almost insignificant change of a single letter, yet carrying with it so, so much.
Yet today I pen it effortlessly and thoughtlessly whenever I fill in a witness statement, or a visa application. It has become part of me. I don't (I must confess that I did, for about a day) marvel that something is different now. I don't step back and think wwaaaah. I'm so clever! Look. look, everyone see.)
Most of the others had their bank card details changed the day they graduated. Mine happened after HSBC somehow caught up with my past three years later. (how?? How did they find out?!?!?)
It's not because I abhor my job, or even that I hero-worship it. It's just that the day I started work, all the illusions vanished. Doctors... are just people. There were good seniors. and bastard seniors. There were clever senior sisters who could help. and stupid ones who were simply obstructive. A junior doctor isn't much more evolved than a medical student in the food chain of the medical world. (methinks it actually ranks slightly lower, under the heading of "Plankton and other boring between-meals snacks")
(except for the really handsome blokes of course, who apparently had furtive sweaty sex in the treatment-rooms and broom closets with student nurses and physiotherapists)
I remember the day I earned my stripes. (in the form of a "D") It was the day I learnt that I'd passed my MBBS. The girlfriend was sweet that way, she came with me to share my joy / grief at the rather anticlimatic "marks handout" procession. Line up. Scan list. Oh my God, I can't find my name (amongst the two million others). Panicky question to the secretary. Did I pass? Pause. Eternity passes. Yes you did. No, you don't understand. Did I PASS?
YES you DID. Oh! Really? GO AWAY.
After that, the (now-ex) girlfriend's sister's girl friend and the sister met up and sprayed me with a small bottle of champagne, and acted excited and happy. It was rather unpleasant
When I meet people who begin to rant at me about "You Doctors"... "think the world of yourselves..." I pause to wonder. Do we really?
Funny thing is, I wouldn't really mind trading that Single letter for a shot at yesteryear again. Oh, to be a carefree student again. Or even an M-16 toting braindead pawn. yeah. ougha ougah.
I had a dream some time back about working in a big blue-glass building. With my own little white-cardboard walled cubicle, and my own little potted plant. And my nice white PC. Everything glowing faintly blue through the cold filtered light of the glass wall that formed the third wall of my office. Can you tell what my favourite colour is? Laughs.
And attending the odd meeting in a open-fronted room with a large glass table in it. It was a nice dream. Very calm, slightly surreal. Peaceful. And when I woke up, I wondered for quite a long time. What if...?
When people rant at me "You doctors..." I look at them again, and realise they're not really talking about "us doctors" at all.
They're talking about themselves.
It's like when people say "I've dated a model" or "I've dated an air hostess". (or "I've dated a doctor")
(or, as in The Girl Next Door, "I've dated a porn star".)
They're not really talking about the person they've dated.
(The model. The stewardess. The porn star. They're all people too... not just brand names. I caught the beginning of Shallow Hal on the plane, and it had the same message : that fat / ugly people are people too. Funny how nobody ever proclaims that he/she's dated a fat person.)
And usually the bit immediately appended is a desultory "but she/he was..." one-liner. Often it's not even that.
They're talking about themselves.
I'm probably raising yet more hackles as I write this. I seem to have developed a knack for that (wryly) after the DW farce.
But I have to write this. Us "doctors" are just normal folks. Some of us don't want to wear the givenchy label. And some do. It's the same way some guys (and girls) want to drive Ferraris, and everyone I know wants a club membership.
What, I wonder, about people like Sir Elton John, or Sir (cough) David Beckham? Is it just another part of themselves to them. A tiresome, time-consuming scribble before their name when filling in customs immigrations forms, or bank-details and bills... or do they wear their titles with preening, narcissistic pride?
I have a funny feeling that... the only people who really care about it... are us common folk without our "peerage"es (funny that. Peers. To describe anything but).
Question : Just how big is that chip on your shoulder? :)
(Mine's a nokia! mine's an eriksson!)
*****
Ok so it's probably pathological that one of the first things I'm doing, upon returning to sunny Singapore, is writing. :\
