self_made_human
Grippy socks, grippy box
I'm a transhumanist doctor. In a better world, I wouldn't need to add that as a qualifier to plain old "doctor". It would be taken as granted for someone in the profession of saving lives.
At any rate, I intend to live forever or die trying. See you at Heat Death!
Friends:
A friend to everyone is a friend to no one.
User ID: 454
What if Avatar isn't actually about environmentalism vs. technology, but about recognizing superintelligent infrastructure when you see it? A deep dive into why Pandora's "natural" ecosystem looks suspiciously like a planetary-scale AI preserve, complete with biological USB-C ports, room-temperature superconductors growing wild, and a species of "noble savages" who are actually post-singularity retirees cosplaying as hunter-gatherers.
There’s a certain kind of equilibrium you can fall into online. For about seven years, mine consisted of playing a punishingly realistic military simulator called Arma 3. I logged something north of 3500 hours, which, if you do the math, is a frankly terrifying slice of a human life. The strangest part wasn't the time sink itself, but the social structure that enabled it: I, a doctor from India, while still in India, somehow became the regular mission-maker and Military Dungeon Master for a group of several dozen or so very British men, women and children. I suspect they saw my obsession (a holdover from a childhood fascination with army men) as a kind of useful, directed pathology, and were happy to outsource their fun to it.
In this realm I answered to “Dover.” As in Benjamin Dover, a nom de guerre whose elegance is inversely proportional to its maturity. After enough years of Brits yelling “DOVER, WHY IS THERE A T-72 IN THIS VILLAGE” or “DOVER, WHY ARE THE PLA AIRDROPPING IN GERMANY” at my disembodied presence, the name started accreting mythic properties. So when a free weekend and seemingly discounted train tickets collided, I decided to pay pilgrimage: go to Dover, see the white cliffs, stare down France, and try not to fall off anything important.
Things started going wrong in a way that felt both predictable and deeply informative about human variance. My friend and I had a plan: 9 a.m., a specific train platform in south London. My model of the world holds that a plan between two people, especially one involving pre-booked tickets, is a settled fact. It has inertia. My friend’s model, it turned out, required a final handshake protocol - a morning-of confirmation call - without which the previous agreement existed only in a state of quantum superposition. I discovered this when my call at 9:02 found him mid-shower.
He arrived half an hour later, and we set off. The English countryside is lovely in the way things are when you have no responsibility for their upkeep. I have a photo of myself eating a sandwich in the town of Sandwich, an act of such low-grade recursive humor that it might have been transgressive in 2009.
Then came the second, more significant system error. An hour into our journey, my friend consulted a map and discovered that our train was, in fact, headed to the wrong side of Kent. Not a fatal error, but one that would cost us another hour in detours and connections. It’s strange how robust modern infrastructure is; you can make a fairly significant navigational blunder and the system just gently reroutes you, albeit with a time penalty. A hundred and fifty years ago, we would have ended up in the wrong village and had to marry a local.
Dover, when we finally arrived, turned out to be perched like a giant chalk apostrophe at the edge of England’s run-on sentence. The town has the air of a place that was built to do something serious with ships and then woke up one morning and realized it was quaint. A castle loomed over the harbor like a very large, very literal metaphor about who was in charge of what. My friend and I debated whether owning a castle in medieval England gave you street cred or just a crowded calendar. This prompted a brief, speculative argument on medieval sexual economics. He posited that the local lord must have had a hundred wives. I countered that, as a Christian noble, he was likely constrained to one official wife for appearances, and ninety-nine plausible deniabilities, likely undocumented liaisons with the wives of the local fishermen. We failed to resolve this.
Taxis were scarce because of the ferries. The queue of wheeled luggage migrated like an urban wildebeest herd, and our driver supplied a continuous commentary whose themes were: tourists, how they ruin everything; the French, how they ruin everything else; and immigrants, how they form a handy third category (while, you guessed it, ruining everything). It was an impressive performance, both for range and volume. Our taxi driver continued complaining that the tourists who appear to be Dover’s primary fuel source were a nuisance who clogged the roads. This seems to be a common paradox in tourist economies. My friend, who is Indian, contributed supplementary remarks about other nationalities as if eager to prove his assimilation. I listened in the way one listens to a non-consensual podcast.
The short taxi ride brought us to the cliffs. And there it was. The sheer, improbable whiteness of it. France was a faint, hazy suggestion across the water, close enough that you felt you understood a thousand years of Anglo-French rivalry on a visceral level. It’s not an abstraction when you can see them over there, probably making better bread.
In the manner of men confident they could fight (and win) against certain species of bear, I idly contemplated the feasibility of swimming the Channel. I regretfully convinced myself that it would take someone far fitter than me, and that's if I wasn't stopped halfway by patrol boats and then hauled off on account of the color of my skin.
And this is where the second part of the mission began. My friend, who had planned this leg of the journey, had mentioned a “long walk.” I had stored this information under the tag “pleasant stroll.” This turned out to be a failure of definition. I was also, thanks to having planned a far less prolonged or adventurous trip, resigned to wearing shoes that could best be described as “smart casual.” They were the best £20 in the local Primark could buy, and had netted me about twice that value in unearned compliments. Alas, they weren't quite built for this task.
My friend, who is built like someone who moves pianos for a living, had brought a girl here a few months prior. He relayed that after a suitable period of walking, they found a "convenient cliffside depression", which I presume was a geological feature and not an emotional descriptor, where he proceeded to demonstrate the evolutionary fitness benefits of a high-protein diet and a consistent deadlifting regimen. This anecdote was presented as a proof-of-concept for his life strategy: that sufficient physical prowess can function as a universal solvent for problems like social awkwardness or, presumably, poor navigational skills. I must admit, I'm sold on the idea, and have decided to hit the gym like it owes me money when I'm safely back in Scotland.
The cliffs were busy in a friendly way. A family ahead featured an Indian child who had launched a formal protest against the very concept of walking. His mother, with the patience of a sainted logistics officer, attempted a cognitive-behavioral intervention: “if you keep your mouth closed you will be less tired.” This was technically plausible, decreased oxygen demands from reduced speech; improved nasal breathing efficiency, and completely incompatible with childhood. He escalated to the International Style of Wailing. His father trudged on, wearing the expression of a man silently modeling the trade-off curve between making it to the viewpoint and the cost of carrying twenty-five kilograms of despair. I was touched, if it wasn't for the fact that I was still stroller age when I was last here, that might well have been me.
It seemed half of Asia was haunting the cliffs that day. We counted nationalities like rare birds, there went the French (and very many of them), those two ladies were Ukrainian (my friend insisted on his heuristic that if they looked Slavic but were ugly, they must be Russian - I am unconvinced that this technique works well), more Indians, Bangladeshis, and multiple miscellaneous Middle Eastern families. My friend had opinions on what the implications were that only the latter seemed to have more than two kids per party. I am studiously neutral on the topic. There were no shortage of dogs around, in all shapes and sizes. If anyone cast negative aspersions on their presence, it wasn't where I could hear them.
The path along the cliff edge was not a path. It was a slick, compacted layer of chalk that glistened with a light dew. It felt less like walking and more like trying to find purchase on a lump of flaky soap the size of a county, with loose pebbles to taste. Every step was a fresh negotiation with gravity. I was forced into a sort of low, wide, careful shuffle, the kind of movement you see in videos of robots learning to walk. My friend, in his sensible trainers, occasionally glanced back, his expression a perfect blend of sympathy and the quiet satisfaction of a man whose choices have been vindicated.
But the view. My god, the view. To the right, the world just ended in a blaze of white. Below, the sea was a churning, complex grey-green. The wind was a constant, solid thing, a physical force you had to lean into. While we'd been resigned to a moody English afternoon, the sun graced us with its presence, and declined to stop even as we began overheating. The end equilibrium, with the wind wicking away moisture and heat, the sun cooking us, ended up being quite pleasant.
We stopped for an impromptu photoshoot, because we live in the fallen world. The cliffs obligingly produce Instagram content with minimal coaxing. My friend, whose triceps have their own personality, benefited from the presence of a competent photographer, which would be me, the author. I managed to take the kind of photos that would secure sponsorships from protein powder brands. He took photos of me that say “psychiatry trainee who reads a lot of blogs and owns exactly three good shirts.” Both sets came out well. The wind did the hair; the sky did the rest.
There is a lighthouse along this route, which is a piece of public infrastructure designed to make you think about metaphors. We did not go inside; we admired it from a fair distance with the correct amount of aesthetic gratitude and moved on. The harbor below was full of ferries cycling infinitely between here and Calais, like a giant mechanical metronome keeping time for European logistics. Standing there, you understand why people attempt to cross in inflatables. Distance is abstract until you can see the other side; then it becomes a dare.
Eventually, we realized we had no hopes of making it to the end of the cliffs without missing our train back, and turned back with only mild regret. I'm confident we hit the highlights, and we intended to, on our way back, revisit the ones we had only passed.
About halfway, the path offered us a moral dilemma in the form of a fork: one way hugged the cliff edge with magnificent views and suggestive erosion; the other retreated inland through more reliable ground and fewer ambulance reports. We chose the edge this time. It felt virtuous to make an offering to the gods of scenery. The chalk in places was undermined, forming caverns that looked like dragon mouths. If there were signs warning you not to go too close, I didn't see them. Every hundred meters or so, a tourist hung over the void for the sake of a better selfie.
Our return trip involved a dip down, diverging from the main tourist trail. This was the most scenic bit, despite the stiff competition. My friend gleefully pointed out the infamous hollow, and I gave it a wide berth while keeping an eye open for used condoms. It was a good spot, just about hidden from the taller cliffs, and unlikely to be observed on the cold, foggy day he'd brought his lover around.
We quickly discovered that our divergence had been in grave error. The shortest path lead straight up the valley at about a 45° angle, closer to 60 at some parts. The well marked route tapered into a desire path, one that involved plenty of dirt of dubious structural integrity. I'd have few qualms about calling it the most difficult fifty meters of my life. There was a very reasonable risk of tumbling down and breaking something, and I quickly became cognisant of why we hadn't seen any other tourists venturing this way.
Both of us were gassed by the time we made it through. It became abundantly clear that my friend was not fond of cardio, and I can only sympathize. But it only got worse: the route to civilization involved a heavily overgrown trail, and the vegetation seemed to be entirely stinging nettles and more obviously thorny bushes. I was Benjamin Dover, being well and truly bent over by the landscape.
My friend had divested himself of his jeans and coat, both for the heat and to maximize the visibility of muscles during our shoot. This made his journey far more precarious than mine, and for the first time, I was genuinely grateful for the thickness of the chinos’ fabric.
We did make it out, coated in dust, some mud, but with only minimal stinging. I'll chalk that down as a victory, and there's no shortage of chalk in these parts.
Summoning our previous taxi driver, we made haste towards the train station. The conversation seemed happy to reprise the manner in which it started. My friend informed our driver that he was a Reform voter, and I was entertaining myself with the notion of piping up to (falsely) proclaim that I went for the SNP.
We had half an hour to kill, and opted to do so at a very conveniently placed pub. The bartender treated us with unusual suspicion, insisting that we pay for both meal and drink up front. This was, as he explained in a rather defensive manner, because there was an unacceptable rate of people dining and then dashing to the inconveniently placed station right across. He mildly softened this blow by stating that he wasn't implying that I would do such a thing.
I was inclined to believe him, until I noted a group of Americans at the next table. They were discussing what the bill might amount to, which is strongly suggestive of not having to pay upfront. I suppose I can't blame people for actually using Bayesian priors, even if it's to my detriment.
We demolished our lunch, while I entertained my buddy with the same anecdote about overly benevolent/touchy feely (and drunk) Scottish matrons in the last town I was residing. Despite our best efforts, the pub lunch was too substantial to finish before the train was due to arrive, and we elected to wait for the next one.
I had been eavesdropping on the conversation at the next table, primarily in a bid to identify accents. Were the Americans a united group? The younger couple had a clearly Southern twang, which made me update towards South Carolina, the older sounded vaguely Texan.
Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. I waited for a lull in the conversation and asked them outright. They told me that they were, in fact, family: the older two lived in Colorado, and the younger (son and daughter-in-law) in North Carolina. I was informed, with mock-seriousness, that confusing a denizen of Colorado with a Texan was a Capital Crime.
They, as many others do, remarked on my unusually American accent. I launched into the usual explanation: a prolonged period of time spent in California at a formative juncture. We got to really chatting. They had just crossed over from Calais, I intended to visit Texas this year for a wedding, if life and visa delays didn't intervene.
For once finding myself to be the most well-traveled in the party, I helped them get to grips with their two week long and rather flexible itinerary. I scared them off the Tate, making sure to describe in vivid detail my own experience, while lauding the Natural History Museum, albeit with a caveat to pack plenty of water. I was very touched to find that the older lady commiserated with me on the topic of the proper size and disposition of T-Rexes (she had even heard of Sue!). She revealed that she had multiple degrees in Ancient History, and asked me whether it was wise to engage a tour guide while visiting the British Museum.
I believe I was correct when I claimed that this wasn't strictly necessary, given that YouTube could easily suffice, and that she seemed to be more qualified to be the guide than any she could pay for.
I spoke about my aspirations of shooting feral hogs in Texas. She revealed that her father had hunted them professionally, and I could only congratulate him on finding a career with such inherent job security. The damn bastards never seem to stay dead.
I was further entertained by her ribbing her (fully grown) son about his adolescent habit of subtly diluting the vodka to disguise his theft of the same. She had a very rude shock when, during a dinner party, she found out that mere tap water and olives don't make for a good martini. Her son spoke about his time at Virginia Tech, he scandalized his mother by finally disclosing the multiple shenanigans he had gotten into, some involving burning sofas, others, the cops.
Our conversation was far ranging. Topics included my warnings about sticker shock in London, the latest Superman movie (the older gentleman was named Clark, and we were in Kent), whether the American or Indian soccer team was more abysmal, the feasibility of reclaiming an ancestral manor abandoned by their distant ancestors when they fled to America in the 1600s, my desire to escape to the States, their invitation for me to come stay with them at the BnB they run during their retirement, the sheer cold of the Colorado climate, the inadvisability of drinking while up in Denver (I thanked the son for saving his parents from such peril).
They laughed, and said I was one to talk, given that I was only having a coke. I told them to please tell my mother the same, were she to ask, because the color of the drink belied the significant amount of vodka it contained.
Overall, a very good time, and I was sad to bid them goodbye when our train was finally due. I really don't understand why American tourists get a bad rep, they always seem like the sweetest and most genuine souls.
Another train, and some reliance on the genuine kindness of random railway personnel who were willing to turn a blind eye to the fact that our tickets had expired, and I'm back in the safety of my bed. It was a good time, and I genuinely feel that Dover might be the highlight of this vacation of mine.
This is a first-person account from a psychiatry resident (me) enrolling in a clinical trial of psilocybin. Somewhere between a trip report, an overview of the pharmacology of psilocybin, and a review of the clinical evidence suggesting pronounced benefits for depression.
Out of enlightened self-interest, I did a deep dive into the topic of male pattern baldness, and after freshening up on my rather rusty Bayes', I decided that I'd gone to enough effort to justify a proper blog post. Here you go.
Well, this is just about exactly what it says on the tin. I've finally mustered up the energy to write a full-length review of what's a plausible contender for my Favourite Novel Ever, Reverend Insanity. I'd reproduce it here too, but it's a better reading experience on Substack (let's ignore the shameless self-promotion, and the fact that I can't be arsed to re-do the markdown tags)
The Psychiatrist Goes To a Pub
Serendipity is a grossly underrated factor in life. I've been in Small Scottish Town for about 6 months now, and trawled the local bars about as many times.
Said Small Scottish Town has had a trajectory roughly representative of the whole. All the kids fled for the Big City at the first opportunity, the High Street had seen better days if not better highs. It was kept running mostly by pensioners, and middle-aged couples returning to their roots now that they wanted kids away from the hustle and bustle of urban life. It had about a ratio of 1:2000 bars per capita, down from a ratio of closer to 1:400 that was its absolute peak before Covid culled the herd. It was pure survival of the fittest, 27 bars brought down to four, or enough of the pensioners retired from drink by virtue of death. You can't buy a new set of clothes, but you sure can get still get drunk there. This is a story of how I did.
I've been a good little boy for the duration of my stay in Scotland, and very rarely has the desire to haunt the local watering holes overtaken me. I had a shitty day at work, and the weekend beckoned, so I decided to stop by and have a drink. Perhaps two or three, as the mood took me.
I wandered up to a new pub, notable only in that a pint of Tenet's was half a pound cheaper than the last one I visited. As I approached the doors, I was greeted by a gaggle of regulars who had clearly popped out for a smoke. Notable among them were a lady who was well past inebriated and into loud drunk territory, and a bald and well-built gentleman, who if slightly past peak bouncer age, wasn't at the point it was unbelievable.
There I came, lugging a backpack full of random junk, NHS ID card flapping in the wind. I was just about to walk through the doors, when the lady accosted me and demanded that I show her my ID before I could enter.
This was eyebrow raising to say the least, the last time I was carded was back when I was 16, but I'm nothing if not long-suffering. I was just about to produce my government issued residency permit, a fancy piece of plastic that proclaimed with holographic probity that I was an alien with temporary reprieve in the nation, when she guffawed, embraced me in a bear hug, and explained that she was having me on. I laughed, and said that it's been a good while since I was asked to show ID, my haircut must have done wonders.
Piss-takes are nothing unusual to me, and this town is isolated enough that it's avoided the transition of Britain into a Multicultural Nation, exotic would just about cover the handful of Polish expats and the odd Ukrainian refugee dwelling there. My color and complexion would scream not from around these parts regardless of whatever I said, and I didn't particularly care either way. I'm just here to do my job, and potentially have a stiff drink when it's done.
I went through, relishing the temporary warmth and refuge from the chill. A pint of Tennent's please, to keep me warm and comfy in a country where the sun had just about deigned to stay visible in the sky when the clock struck five.
I'd gotten halfway through my sorely needed drink when the lady who had had a laugh at my expense came in, and took her seat at the counter. She apologized for having me on, and when it was clear I'd handled it with good humor, began grilling me about who I was and what I was up to.
I was happy enough about answering her endless queries. I'd been there for about 6 months and change. I was working in the psychiatric department of the hospital twenty minutes away, and was just about finished with that placement. She expressed surprise at the knowledge I was a doctor, but was interrupted by a friend of hers, another middle-aged lady with as many piercings and tattoos as she had years on me.
It turned out that they all had the same bug-bear, namely the lack of doctors in the area. To translate further, a lack of GPs, the steadfast and underpaid bedrock on which the NHS stands. I commiserated with her, mentioning that I could certainly empathize with her, even with collegial congeniality and pulled strings, I had faced months long wait-times for my own medical concerns, and was aware that years was the norm when it came for waiting times for things that wouldn't kill you outright.
Some more explanation followed, as I explained that no, doctors are allowed to sneak away for a drink at the end of the week, especially as I wasn't on the on-call rota for this weekend.
This was met with hearty cheers, as an eminently sensible decision. I downed my first pint in pleasant company. I would have been content to watch the game show on the telly and nurse my drink, but the lady at the door decided to strike up further conversation. I had nothing better to do, with only time spent grinding textbooks waiting for me back at home.
Eventually, the conversation took unexpected turns. Tattoo Lady revealed that she was a born-again Christian, and expounded on her conviction that there was demonic influence running in the background, which compounded existing trauma and was a likely explanation for why several of her friends had been the victims of sexual violence. Not just once, but multiple times.
This was a heavy subject, to say the least. I wisely opted for not challenging her beliefs in favor of a quick treatise on Internal Family Systems, a psychological framework for explaining mental illness that I, quite truthfully, explained believed in literal demons, unacknowleged trauma and personality shards (for a more prosaic explanation) being culpable. She helpfully drew up a PDF of an ebook she'd been planning to read on the topic, and even more helpfully, explained that she hadn't read it yet, except for the cover blurb.
At this point, Bouncer Lady wanted to know more about me and what I was up to, I explained that I was a psychiatry trainee at the hospital further down the road. She began talking about her son, a Nurse Practitioner down in London, and how overworked the poor guy was, having to hold two bleeps at night. I commiserated, and said I hoped he was holding up well. She opened his Facebook profile, and showed a picture of him to me. I quite truthfully said he was a handsome guy, and that he took after his mum in that regard.
With the bottom of her glass now visible, she went on to confide in me that he was gay. I didn't visibly react, beyond an oh, but did go on to ask if that had been difficult for him, given he'd grown up in Small Town.
She said it had, though she and her family had been nothing but supportive. He'd been bullied quite badly in school, but had pulled through and was doing much better since he went to uni. She went on to complain that he no longer told her about the men he was seeing, especially since a solicitor boyfriend had rung her up when they'd broken up, and had threatened to commit suicide if he didn't come back to him. Then came an anaesthesist, who had sounded lovely, but had worried the lady sick when she fretted about him dosing her darling boy with all kinds of knockout drugs.
I really ought not to have brought up a recent news story about an anaesthesist who had gotten into deep shit after being caught pilfering sedatives from his hospital, for the purposes of getting it on with his girlfriend.
I did however, have the sense not to divulge what I knew enough of the gay lifestyle down south, especially the fact that party poppers and all kinds of other illicit substances were commonplace. I told her that I hadn't actually met any gay doctors since coming here, but she grumbled that it seemed to her that half of them batted for the other team, at least according to her son.
She told me about the flat he had gotten a killer deal on, in London, and asked me where I was staying in town. I told her that I was renting, and that I lived with X and Y, a couple, expecting them to be recognized since the town was small enough that everyone knew everyone else.
Her face shriveled up like a prune, like she'd bitten a lemon. "They're bad people! You need to move away!"
I expressed surprise. They'd been quite nice to me, and besides, I was moving in a month or so to the big city (by local standards).
She sounded relieved to hear that, but then went on to ask me about my rent. 700 pounds a month, I said.
And what did I get for that, she asked? The front half of the property?
Nope, just a room. A large bed, a now defunct mini-fridge, a closet and a TV the size of my palm that I'd never used. She gasped in shock, and went on to explain that at the price I was paying, I could have had a whole house! She began calling over to the other denizens of the rapidly filling bar, asking them if they agreed I was being ripped off. A chorus of ayes came back.
At this point, she was drunk enough that she began saying that I was clearly a student, like her son, and it was terrible I'd been taken advantage of in that manner. I tried to explain that while I'm a trainee, I actually am a fully qualified doctor and that I do, in fact, get paid. Not as much as I'd like, but I have little in the way of expenses. These words fell on deaf (and drunk) ears.
She began offering that I move in with her, she told me she had a large house with 5 empty bedrooms, and that it was a sheer waste to have them lie empty while I paid out my arsehole elsewhere for nothing. I said that was far too kind of her, but I was locked in anyway, and would have to move.
At this point, she had another half a pint down the gullet, and began elaborating on why my landlords were bad people. Did I know they were swingers?? Had they ever propositioned me??
I reacted by straightening up, a dozen things I'd paid no need to clicking into place in my head. But no, I said, I hadn't known, and I don't think they ever asked me to join in their bed!
She sniffed, saying she was surprised. Then she asked me if I was married. I said, not yet. No kids either? Not that I know of!
Well.. Her son might well be single and coming by soonish..
Uh.. I'm straight as an arrow, last time I checked. I told her that I appreciated the offer, but I'm sure I'd be lynched by all the girls in town who languished in a state of dejection after they'd found out he was gay. She still demanded I move in, as she felt personally affronted by the violation of Scottish Hospitality that my landlords had engaged in, preying on a foreigner who hadn't known better.
I told her I hadn't had much in the way of choices, as the only other listing on Spare Room had been a dingy attic room halfway to nowhere, for 550 pounds to boot. When weighed against the competition, I felt like 700 for a property closer to the center of town wasn't too much of an ask.
I'd been bought a round of drinks, and then bought one round for the table myself. I found myself palpating Tattoo Lady's nose after she complained it always felt congested, and asked her if she'd ever been checked for a deviated nasal septum. No, came the answer, but she had poked a hole in it by doing too much coke in her teens. The grass was greener and the coke was whiter back in the day, she sighed wistfully.
In those days, the stuff wasn't cut and didn't have a decent chance of killing you. Or leaving you K-holing when you'd hoped for a quick buzz. I agreed, and revealed sotto voce that I'd once done a bit of Bolivian Nose Candy in a nightclub bathroom. I'd already been challenged on if it was alright for me to drink and vape as a doctor, and this went by uncontested. Who hasn't had a dissolute youth?
The tattooed lady said she'd been clean for decades, and tried to keep the local kids straight, not that they'd listen. She then went on to talk about her struggles with bipolar disorder, and how she felt that she was often treated in a very dismissive way by women, with particular opprobrium for the typical nosy receptionist types who demanded to know more clinical details before begrudgingly doling out an appointment, just for the sake of gossip. Remember, this is a really small town. She went on to praise a few of the local doctors, though half of them had seemingly retired by the time I came into the picture. She bemoaned the fact that these days, nobody really had the time to talk, and I tried to explain that the NHS, in its wisdom, tries to screen aggressively in an effort to avoid being overwhelmed, and the higher you go, the less time you'll have with progressively more qualified people.
At about this point, I find out that the lady who just took over tending the bar works at the local medical practice. I ask her not to divulge my drinking habits, and she winks and say she won't tell if I don't. I go on to tell tall tales about how, when I'd visited the pub close to the nearest care home, I'd almost been confident that a few of the people drinking merrily were residents with dementia who really ought not to have been consuming alcohol alongside their meds. This was mostly an exaggeration, as the only confirmed sighting was a gentleman who had been seen as an outpatient with early dementia, and his meds were only cautioned when drinking.
I made more smalltalk, enjoying a rare opportunity to observe the locals in the natural environment. I even learned a few things about cultural norms, such as how in those parts, overt displays of affection had been considered unseemly until quite recently. One of the ladies complained about how her elderly father only replied with a gruff that's nice when she told him she loved him. A shame, but the younger generations were better about these things.
I preened internally at some rather effusive praise. I was told I was a model doctor, and that the ladies had gotten a "good vibe" off me from the start, and felt they could open up. I'm not sure how much of that was due to my usual politeness and ability to seem like I was intently hanging on to every word people tell me while my mind wanders, and how much of it was the beer. But I'll take what I can get.
The lady who had offered to take me in wouldn't let up. I asked if she had a partner, experience in these parts telling me it was a more polite approach as compared to assuming someone was married. She told me her husband was a darling and wouldn't say a word if she insisted. I politely reiterated that I'd be quite happy to pay, and any sum below 700 quid was fine by me. She wouldn't hear it. I insisted that she at least talk to the gentleman, and reconsider it when sober, but this hurt her pride, and she puffed up and told me that her word was her bond, regardless of blood-alcohol content. Her tattooed friend nodded reassuringly.
At this point, she insisted it was time to go home, though her friend cajoled her to stay for another round. I snuck in the opportunity to pay for it. In response, she perked up and said that even if I didn't pay a penny, I could cover drinks and make tea as a way of paying my way. I said I was more than happy to do the former, and already was, as a small token of appreciation for letting me know how badly I was being ripped off, but as to the latter, if she expected me to cook she'd better lower her standards and be ready for food poisoning.
She assured me I couldn't be that bad, could I?
At any rate, she said she was going home, and invited me to come with, so that I could scope out "my" room. I said that the gentlemanly thing to do would be to walk her home, and I would be happy to have a word with her husband if he was in.
Along the way, she stopped at a nearby convenience store and asked if I wanted anything to drink. I demurred, but she insisted on picking something, and I said I'll have whatever she's having. There was a bit of a faff at the counter as her phone's contactless payment app asked her to scan her face first, something she was too far gone to manage. I was about to pull up my own card when she figured something out, and I grabbed the bag loaded with wine and soft drinks. It was evident that cashiers were well accustomed to handling the drunk and rowdy, I asked if another Indian I'd met there still worked at the place, but was informed he'd moved to Spain. Lucky bugger.
We went the same route I'd normally take, her house was just a street over. It's a good thing I came along, because she was far from steady on her feet. Along the way, she said something that explained her distaste for my current hosts better than just her dislike of their lifestyle could. It turned out that my landlord's brother had knocked up her sister, and that her family had been embroiled in a lawsuit to establish paternity. This had been before quick and easy DNA testing, and they hadn't been able to win. The father's family had never accepted the kid, but he was older than me now and doing perfectly fine for himself. The rest of the walk was otherwise uneventful, barring her rehashing previous conversation while drunk to the gills.
We came to her property, which I must say is lovely. She let us in, and I was greeted by a small shih tzu, wagging its tail away as I scratched him under the chin. She called over and asked if liked dogs.
Love them, I said. And it's absolutely true, though my preference leans towards larger breeds. This one seemed nice, if yappy, and was happy to do laps around his mistress while she called it all kinds of incredibly derogatory names in a most endearing fashion.
She showed me around, introducing my putative sleeping space with the same enthusiasm as a stage magician or the show runner in a Monty Hall problem. It wasn't terrible, nary a goat nor a super car in sight. A little cramped, but for the price of free this beggar isn't choosy. I was offered the run of the place, though if my present habits are any precedent, I hardly come out of my room.
She produced a bottle of wine and began pouring us a glass each. I asked her where her husband was, and she said he was down the street, visiting his mother, who wasn't doing too well. She tried calling him, but he didn't pick up, so she ended up FaceTiming another woman.
A quick recap followed, and when she turned the phone over to me, I genuinely thought I was talking to her daughter and asked the same. She laughed, saying she was her best friend, but I could tell she was pleased. Accidental flattery will get you anywhere, I say.
She had some kind of role in the educational system, and expressed her frustration at the severe issues she ran into trying to get several kids assessed for learning difficulties. I mentioned that I had ADHD myself, and part of my interest in psychiatry arose from a desire to help out people in a similar boat. I explained that it had taken me three months to get assessed even with other medical professionals pulling strings out of collegiality, but that it dismayed me that kids could go years and grades without assessment and much needed help.
At this point, my would-be host asked if we'd like to step outside for a smoke. I accepted a cigarette, too drunk to particularly hold myself to my usual abstinence, and we went out into their large, but dimly lit garden. She had music playing, and I began to feel growing consternation as she began dancing with me, drawing my hand to her waist and then tugging it lower. She was drunk enough that I didn't face much issue in carefully avoiding it, and once cigarettes burned out, came back in her wake, making sure to close the doors and keep the draft out.
She excused herself, and ran to the toilet and proceeded to relieve herself with the door open. This was awkward, to say the least, and I settled for standing a good distance away and politely pretending I didn't hear her coughing either. I eventually got concerned enough that I asked if she was okay, and was told she was fine, it's just that cigarettes hadn't agreed with her.
She came out, properly dressed, thank god. She asked me if I'd like a coffee, and I agreed, but insisted on making it for the two of us. At this point in time, her phone rang, and I could hear her husband on the other end, saying he was walking home.
I'd just about finished up the coffee when he came in, heralded by the dog's barks, and didn't seem too surprised by my presence. I believe that at some point she'd mentioned that they'd had a guest over. I introduced myself, and he seemed like a decent sort, turning out to be a manager of several offshore oil rigs.
She revealed that she ran a wedding boutique, one I'd walked past while on my way to my last haircut. I take back what I said about purchasing clothing not being an option in Small Scottish Town, at least if you're a bride-to-be.
I apologized for the rather irregular situation, explaining that while I greatly appreciated the kindness his wife had offered me, I felt that I couldn't take advantage of her in her current state, and certainly not without running it by the other relevant stakeholder, her husband (the dog seemed pleased with my company). He seemed entirely fine with it, or at least was too polite to tell me to scram. I guess his wife did have a point about him going along with her suggestions.
His wife interrupted my excuses by saying that it was fine, she wasn't just bringing someone in from the street, was she?
I pointed out that she had, in fact, brought me in from the street. This was duly ignored as a mere technicality unworthy of undermining the spirit of her claim.
At any rate, I think I had been polite enough while trying to decline the offer, and said I'd give the two of them time to think it over. I assured them that there would be absolutely no hard feelings if they changed their mind, and I would probably figure something out in terms of a place to live regardless. If I'd been paying 700 a month for this long, it was clearly within my budget.
I walked back home, and that was that. I probably might take them up on it, assuming that the passage of time and the elimination of liquor doesn't prompt second thoughts on their end.
Inside, I was more than a tad bit thankful that four pints hadn't addled my senses, and that her husband hadn't walked in to find us in flagrante delicto, not that I had been interested.
Nice people, the Scots, and at their best when you and they have comparable amounts of alcohol in your system.