March in March

Join the medical workforce on March 17th and protest against the massive employment and training crisis that we are now facing as a result of failed Department of Health policy.

The Telegraph's take on Modernising Medical Careers

Father and Son

Batu Caves Temple, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia ©Tauseef Mehrali 2005

The Tannery

The Tannery, Fez, Morocco ©Tauseef Mehrali 2006

Karbala in Verse

A pretty self-explanatory link that does what it says on the tin.

Decisions, decisions

My task yesterday was to convince a precocious 6 year old lad recovering from leukaemia to have an injection. Not usually too taxing a requirement as these kids have been subjected to more pin pricks than even the most elderly of tailors. This particular injection was different though. It had to be given intramuscularly i.e. in an arm or bum. In a bid to empower him I offered him the choice. He eventually opted for his posterior. Next we had to decide on a side.

Me: Which bum do you want it in? Left or right?
Kid: Ermmm...ermmm...which bum?
Me: That's right.
Kid: Ermmm...my mum's bum!

Proof

Photographic proof of my alleged trips to Fez and Bosnia is now available in 'My Travels'.

Travels with a Tangerine

Tim Mackintosh-Smith's entertaining travelogue subtitled 'A journey in the footsteps of Ibn Battutah' has made its way onto television with the first part being aired on BBC 4 tonight at 21:00.

Tim Mackintosh-Smith sets off in the footsteps of the Moroccan scholar Ibn Battutah who, in 1325, embarked on a thirty-year pilgrimage across forty countries and three continents.

This first episode, retracing Ibn Battutah's journey across North Africa, tells the story of an unprecedented age of wanderlust in the Islamic world.

Heading first for Battutah's birthplace, Tangier in Morocco, Tim stumbles on a performance of medieval trance music, devours a sheep's head in the souq and meets children being taught about the Hajj pilgrimage, the original reason Battutah left home.

Following Battutah's trail to Egypt, Tim ventures into the countryside by tuk-tuk and donkey to a remote village where Battutah had an astonishing prophetic dream. In Cairo, Tim visits Al Azhar, the world's oldest university, and explores how the search for knowledge and understanding is integral to Islam.

After sailing down the Nile, Tim finds a camel herder who is prepared to take him across the desert, and they set out into the wilderness.

Time to stand up to the extremists

Thanks to tc of Heliotype fame for bringing this to my attention.

Time to stand up to the extremists

Today's news of a third letter bomb attack - this time sent to the DVLA - should be a wake up call for everyone in this country. For too long we have allowed an extremist minority of Radical Motorists to grow like a cancer in our midst.

And the few brave souls who have stood up to the stifling politically correct "multivehicular" consensus and warned of the threat posed by Extremist Motorism have been shouted down with wild accusations of "Motorphobia" for their pains.

Let us be clear. The vast majority of British Motorists are law-abiding moderates. But they have allowed their community to be hijacked by a radical fringe with no respect for our common values.

These extremists have infiltrated so-called "driving schools" and taken over the most prominent Motorist organisations, such as the RAC and AA. And they have a hidden fanatic agenda of replacing our British rule of law with their Highway Code.

It's time for moderate mainstream Motorists to acknowledge the problem in their community and, errm, drive out the extremists. They need to be clear and unequivocal in their condemnation of the latest Motorist outrages. They should start cooperating with the transport police rather than complaining about how they're being "victimised".

And the government needs to take off the kid gloves and crack down hard on hate-filled extremists such as Jeremy Clarkson who hog the airwaves and give all Motorists a bad name.

Oh, and one more thing. How are we supposed to communicate properly if some of them insist on covering up their faces?

The Medina

The Medina, Fez, Morocco ©Tauseef Mehrali 2006

The Medina (2), Fez, Morocco ©Tauseef Mehrali 2006

Guess who's back?

In the end, this comment proved sufficient incentive to overcome the ineptitude of the cretins behind blogger.com who decided to fix something that wasn't broken and in doing so cripple by ability to blog. It was galling to discover that a mere '/' lay between me cluttering cyberspace with my random thoughts and remaining effectively mute for the last couple of months.

Any way, let the good times begin (again).

Clepsydra

Dar el Magana, Fez, Morocco ©Tauseef Mehrali 2006

Door and Arch

Door and Arch, Fez, Morocco ©Tauseef Mehrali 2006

Fez - Fes

It was about time the fake Leo Africanus trod in the original Leo Africanus' footsteps albeit courtesy of Ryanair.

Fez is a remarkable city predominatly due to the huge yet intense, bustling yet oasis-laden, medina, or old city - known as Fes al-Bali. I'm staying in a meticulously renovated town house in the heart of the Medina. The tranquil insulation it offers from the souq is amazing.

I'm making a habit of roaming through the marketplace usually ending up far off-piste by following the hyperstimulation of either my nose or retinae or both. I'm thankful to the orientation derived from a whistlestop, entertaining tour of the old city given by a precocious eleven-year old, Mahdi, yesterday evening. Architectural wonders that you catch fleeting glimpses of in Andalusia are the norm. Strange characters that would easily inhabit the literary world of say Allen Poe are even more common. People-watching in Fez could be marketed as a lifestyle, or even a full-time (pre-)occupation.

The unseasonally warm days (mid-20°C) and jumper-requiring cool nights lend the whole day to exploring. My palate is re-adjusting to the flavours of Maghribi cuisine and my tastebuds are pleasantly tantalised. The mint tea here has been a particular revelation, each glass sporting a jungle of fresh spearmint. Touts are bemused by my Franco-Arab hybrid language and are struggling to place me - Saudi, Algeria, Syria are variants from the "Bakistani?" overture. My inner-Berber is still lying somewhat dormant though. Maybe a fetching pair of yellow leather slippers will see to that?

Time to hit the streets again! Au revoir et ma'assalaam.

A case of mistaken identity

During a particularly busy night shift last week I was summoned to the delivery suite. The midwives wanted me to attend because the baby was being born through thick meconium and being vacuumed out with a ventouse, placing it in a higher category of risk than a 'normal' birth. I flipped into emergency mode and proceeded at breakneck speed to the labour ward.

I entered the room in question purposefully and strode towards the resuscitaire in anticipation of the newborn. As I passed the labouring woman and introduced myself I caught site of what I imagined to be her baby being delivered and the old alarm bells started ringing. In fact my internal siren was blaring. The baby appeared deformed, inhuman, almost alien-like in its lack of distinguishing features. I started rummaging through my mental archives for syndromes and conditions that could result in such an appalling condition. I was considering calling my registrar to join me in what was turning into an incredibly delicate and potentially intensive situation.

My feelings must have made themselves evident by breaking through to the exterior as the midwife asked me in a concerned tone:

"Are you alright doc? You look a bit shocked!"

The question prompted a swift re-evaluation of the scenario and metaphorically (and maybe even literally) stepping back I noticed that a baby was already lying on the mother's chest trying to hold on to the vestiges of its nine months of symbiosis. The penny suddenly dropped. I turned to the midwife and exclaimed:

"That's the placenta isn't it?!"
"It sure is doc. It sure is." She replied, triggering off a crescendo of warm laughter.

My bleep went off again and I left one moment of surreality for another.

India abolishes husbands' 'right' to rape wife

The evocative headline grabbed my attention in today's Independent. It's difficult to get excited by statistical analysis of events probably due to a degree of desensitisation from the seemingly endless conveyor belt of shocking statistics from Iraq, Darfur, Afghanistan etc but the numbers in this piece were sufficiently outrageous to appear on my radar.

There is a remarkably low rate of violent crime against strangers in most of the big cities, and it is safe to walk the streets of Mumbai or Bangalore late at night. But every six hours, a young married woman is burnt to death, beaten to death, or driven to suicide by emotional abuse from her husband, figures show.

More than two-thirds of married women in India aged between 15 and 49 have been beaten, raped or forced to provide sex, according to the UN Population Fund.

The UN Population Fund's 2005 report found that 70 per cent of Indian women believed wife-beating was justified under certain circumstances, including...preparing dinner late.

Deja-vu

I broke my fast with the customary (fake-McVities) digestive biscuit and (authentic) Typhoo tea and with renewed vigour set about seeing patients in the Paediatric Assessment Unit. As I sat behind the reception desk to gather my thoughts and subsequently scrawl them on to paper, my eyes caught those of a gentleman who happened to be strolling past to get a drink for his daughter. He looked familiar but I couldn't quite place him.

There was a backlog of kids waiting to be seen so I didn't ration much further brainpower and time in trying to decipher how the Venn diagrams of our lives had overlapped. However, when he walked past again neither of us could contain ourselves. The bespectacled father (BF) approached the desk and in the broadest of Walsall accents initiated proceedings:

BF: Excuse me doctor.
Me: Hello.
BF: I don't mean to be rude but...
Me: (Interrupting him Paxmanesquely) I know what you're going to say: you've seen me somewhere before?
BF: Yeah.
Me: But I've no idea where!
BF: I do. Were you a student here?

[I naturally began to scramble through my distant memories of undertaking a rotation at this hospital during my student days desperately trying to uncover any seeds that may have sprouted into hefty legal proceedings.]

Me: (Nervously) erm...yes.
BF: You see that little girl over there (pointing to a 3-year old girl being seen by another doctor)?
Me: Oh yes. Is that your daughter?
BF: Yes. You were there at the birth!

The (rather less newsworthy) veil of ignorance was lifted from my eyes and I recognised him and his wife. They'd kindly agreed to let me attend the birth of their daughter and share a very personal moment.

We recalled my decision to abide my Magnus Magnusson's motto "I've started so I'll finish" and staying for the full 17-hour duration of the birth as well as my and BF's successful attempt at heading out for lunch during the labour but failed attempt at hiding this from his wife. They had even kept the card I gave them the following day to thank them for making me an honourary family-member for the day.

A new patient means a new Venn diagram and just as I never expected to revisit the painstaking compass-dependent task of drawing them again, I (rather naively perhaps) never anticipated bumping into the grown up versions of one of the many babies I've seen.

The Last King of Scotland

Giles Foden's excellent novel 'The Last King of Scotland' depicting the relationship between Idi Amin Dada, the eccentric and brutal Ugandan dictator, and his fictional personal physician, has been translated to the silver screen. It is previewing at this year's London Film Festival (incidentally celebrating its 50th anniversary).

See the trailer here.

All importantly, Peter Bradshaw gives it his thumbs up.

Foden reflects on his inspiration for the novel in a piece for the Guardian in 2003.

Some Idi Amin gems:

To Nixon after cuts in US aid to Uganda

My dear brother, it is quite true that you have enough problems on your plate, and it is surprising you have the zeal to add fresh ones. At this moment you are uncomfortably sandwiched in that uncomfortable affair [Watergate], I ask almighty God to solve your problems. We Ugandans hope that the great United States of America does not continue to use its enormous resources, especially its military might, to destroy human life on earth.

To Lord Snowdon after his split with Princess Margaret

Your experience will be a lesson to all of us men to be careful not to marry ladies in high positions.

On Middle Eastern affairs

Arab victory in the war with Israel is inevitable and prime minister of Israel Mrs Golda Meir's only recourse is to tuck up her knickers and run away in the direction of New York and Washington.

The Price of a Fatwa

$22 in India according to Time magazine:

How much does a fatwa cost? The question should be spiritual, but last week an Indian TV channel aired footage of several Indian Muslim clerics allegedly taking bribes from undercover reporters for issuing the edicts. Among the fatwas bought (for as little as $22) were decrees saying Muslims may not use credit cards or double beds. One cleric issued a fatwa in support of watching TV; another wrote one against.

The cash-for-fatwas scandal has renewed debate on what a fatwa is. Scholars should use the edicts to clarify Islamic law in reply to believers' questions. Many Muslims argue fatwas are misused and misunderstood, and not just by non-Muslims, who usually think of them as calls for the death of alleged blasphemers like Salman Rushdie.

India's Muslim leaders plan to create a body to monitor new fatwas. But Islam has no formal hierarchy or clergy. So who can stop someone from issuing--or buying--a fatwa against the fatwa police?

Wikipedia gives a (surprisingly) nuanced precis of the concept of fatwa and inter alia links to a story highlighting the effective partnership of Proctor & Gamble and the Grand Mufti of Saudi in fighting the counterfeit culture.

The BBC Hijab-Styles Guide

Find out about different styles of Muslim headscarf