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Jane's Blogosphere: blogtrack for Natalie Solent.
( 'Nother Solent is this blog's good twin. Same words, searchable archives, RSS feed. Provided by a benefactor, to whom thanks.
I also sometimes write for Samizdata and Biased BBC.)
The Old Comrades:
November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 August 2007 October 2007 February 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 March 2009 May 2009 June 2009 July 2009 August 2009 October 2009 January 2010 March 2010 May 2010 June 2010 July 2010 August 2010 September 2010 October 2010 November 2010 December 2010 January 2011 February 2011 April 2011 June 2011 August 2011 September 2011 October 2011 November 2011 January 2012 February 2012 March 2012 April 2012 May 2012 June 2012 July 2012 August 2012 September 2012 October 2012 November 2012 December 2012 January 2013 February 2013 March 2013 April 2013 May 2013 June 2013 July 2013 August 2013 September 2013 October 2013 November 2013
Friday, August 24, 2007
Awaiting a response. Jane Shilling writes with tears in her eyes,
Secretly, writers like to imagine that words are not mere ornamentation, but possess some real power for change. I have just been reviewing, for the Times Books section, Alan Bennett’s elegant fantasy, The Uncommon Reader, in which a chance encounter between the Queen and that exotic rarity, a travelling library van, infects Her Majesty with a subversive rage for reading.Somewhere out there is the kick in the pants that holds the key to Yann Martel becoming aware what a smug, condescending ass he is, but - alas - it has so far failed to connect.
Laud and Geek Nirvana. I had heard of Derek Laud, mentioned in Andrew Anthony's article about whether race has become a "self-perpetuating problem", as a Conservative parliamentary candidate in the 1997 election. I had had no idea he was in a television programme called Big Brother.
Laud and Jindal. Credit goes to Henry of Crooked Timber, a left winger, who defends Bobby Jindal, a candidate for governor of Louisiana, against claims that he is a Catholic bigot. Jindal, born a Hindu, is a convert to Catholicism and twelve years ago wrote a defence of Catholicism for a religious publication. This piece of writing is being quoted against him now by his political opponents. Henry writes:
... the ‘Jindal on Religion’ website and accompanying TV ad, put up by Louisiana’s Democratic Party, are actively dishonest. The website says that Jindal argues thatI wonder how this will play out. The parallel is not exact, but it reminded me of the mistake Prynne made in publishing Archbishop Laud's diary. (A more accurate account of my mental processes is that it reminded me of the mistake Thingy made in publishing Bishop Wasitlaud's diary. Google and my husband helped out.)
They played for keeps in those days. Laud had Prynne fined, imprisoned and mutilated. Years later the tables were turned, and Laud was in the Tower on trial for his life, with Prynne prosecuting in a trial so blatantly unfair that one actually feels sorry for Laud. Prynne got hold of Laud's private diary in which he agonised about his lusts and other sins and had all the juiciest bits published in order to discredit him with the Puritans. However, Prynne had been so long a lawyer and a pamphleteer that he had forgotten how the rest of his fellow Puritans thought. It was not enough to save Laud, but that tactic backfired:
One of Prynne's greatest blunders was to publish Laud's diary in the Civil War in order to destroy him. It had the opposite effect: Puritans like Walwyn and Robinson were surprised to find how much common ground they shared with him. When Laud, for instance, confessed that he had dreamed of taking the Duke of Buckingham to bed with him, he seemed to Prynne at his most contemptible, whereas to less coarse-grained Puritans, who knew what it was to confide to diaries their temptations to sin, he seemed at his mosttouchingly vulnerable.Now, Catholic apologetics and fantasies about Dukes are very different things, but I wonder if Jindal's writings on Catholicism might, like the diary, far from infuriating Protestant readers, impress them with how seriously he takes his religion - even if they think it's the wrong one.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Loss of nerve
Edward Paul Brown was a premature baby whose birth and death took place within minutes of each other on February 23rd 2007 in a lavatory in Queen's Hospital, Romford.
Eighteen weeks into her pregnancy, his mother, Catherine Brown, was told that there was no amniotic fluid surrounding the baby in her womb. This meant that the baby's chances of survival were minimal and her own life was threatened. Catherine Brown took the "devastating" decision to abort. Even those (such as I) who generally oppose abortion, will see this as a hard case - and I hope that any comments do not get sidetracked onto that issue.
So. We have a woman in hospital waiting for the procedure that will abort her baby, a child she had wanted to bear and raise. Not a pleasant situation at any time, but what followed next was disconcerting to read about even for those who have grown weary of NHS "war stories".
I first saw this in the Times (Baby's birth and death in lavatory of hospital with no trained staff), but there is a considerably more detailed account in This Is London (Mother forced to give birth alone in toilet of 'flagship' NHS hospital) (A very similar account appeared in the Daily Mail.)
Both headlines understate the peculiarly modern horror of what happened. The reader gets a picture of nurses trying to help, but out of their depth because Queen's Hospital did not at that time have a proper maternity unit. That picture is wrong. The part of it that is wrong is the "trying to help." The nurses declined to help.
This Is London quotes Catherine Brown's mother, Sheila Keeling, who was present as her daughter went into labour:
"I was running around frantically trying to find gas and air for her and pleaded with nurses, who seemed very matter of fact, to assist," she said.(Emphasis addded.)
Not just could not help, would not. Would not even be present, as far as I can see. Modern nursing has moved on, you know, since the days when the role of the nurse was to hold your hand and wipe the sweat from your brow. They don't do that any more!
What caused these nurses to hang back from offering the ordinary, unskilled comfort that would once have been seen as the heart of their calling? I am tempted to simply blame it on the NHS. Certainly this case is something to set against all those stories we hear from those benighted lands where healthcare is not financed by taxation. Of course I do blame the NHS for the dreary catalogue of delays and mismanagement that Catherine Brown suffered before the birth; the wait for a scan, the further wait for pain relief, and the fact that she had to lie in a mixed sex ward and the fact that they nearly dumped Edward's dead body. But that is old hat. Things were no different a decade and a half ago when I was in labour in another hospital in Essex and the midwife was obliged to run out into the corridor and yell "Where's the fucking obstetrician?" And my would-be epidural man popped his head round the door and announced that he was ready to begin twenty minutes after the birth. I did not hold it against them. It was a difficult day, lots of births happening at the same time. At least they tried. In Queen's Hospital as Catherine Brown crouched over the support bar of a disabled person's lavatory to deliver her doomed child, they felt themselves unqualified to try. More than their jobs were worth.
No, this gutlessness is new, and although I do see it as yet another consequence of the command economy of the National Health Service, to add to the melancholy consequences we knew about already, I seek a more specific explanation as well. One major factor might well be fear of getting sued. Yet that, too, does not wholly explain it. The nurses concerned must have known that their chances of being held personally liable were tiny and they must also have known that the chances of their hospital getting sued for neglect of duty were significant. (None of the reports I have read in the press say whether this happened, although clearly some official inquisition took place and reached the verdict that press has been reporting over the last few days.)
The loss of nerve is not just seen in hospitals. One can see it in the other public services too.
Looking at the fire service, fireman Tam Brown nearly drowned saving a woman's life in the River Tay - and was rewarded by being threatened with disciplinary action by Tayside Fire and Rescue, on the grounds that he had "broken procedure" by entering the water. He was meant to use the correct ropes and poles and since his crew did not have the correct ropes and poles he was meant to watch her die. Possibly he was meant to put the down time to good use by filling in a safety report on the incident. As it happens he not only got away with his archaic belief that that was not what he had joined the fire service to do, but was belatedly praised for it by his superiors - but, make no mistake, as Squander Two says, that will be because of the publicity.
Looking at the police - Julia Pemberton was murdered along with her son by her estranged husband. She called the police as he rampaged with a shotgun through the house. You can read the transcript of her last 999 call here. "Officers are on the way," says the operator. That was moderately close to being true and the fact that the police could not even find the address of a woman whose house they had fitted with a panic button is not really relevant to this post. They got there in the end and saw the son, William, lying on the drive. At this point three unarmed officers vainly but creditably attempted to help him. Guess what? They were breaking procedure. In the words of Julia Drown MP,
However, the irony is that the officers who stand out as having done everything, and more, that the family could have expected from the police, were the ones who breached the police's policy.
The police did not actually go into the house for hours. Goodness, no. There might have been a violent criminal in there! Probably it made no difference. The victims were already dead. But for all the police knew Julia Pemberton could have been alive but desperately wounded and praying for help. Time was when the ordinary village policeman, unarmed as he was, would have gone in.
Let me say (before someone says it for me) that I do not claim that I would have the courage to go into a house where a killer might lie in wait, or that I would have jumped in the bitter, fast flowing waters of the Tay to save some stupid woman who wanted to top herself. But such were the traditions that were honoured in the police and fire services. In fact, when I talk about "gutlessness" and "loss of nerve" here I am not talking about individual physical courage. Fireman Tam Brown showed great courage. At least three of the policement in the Pemberton murders did as well and all of them showed more guts than I would. But institutional gutlessness surrounded them, was embarrassed by them, and will kill off their like eventually. Poisoned soil does not long give forth good fruit.
Going back to the Queen's hospital example, I do not have the personal qualities to be a good nurse, though I do think I could have bestirred myself to help in this case, when even standing around being useless because untrained would not have been useless and was clearly what the patient wanted. All the training nurses have these days appears to have trained the initiative and compassion right out.
I keep asking myself why anyone wants the new way?
Perhaps, in the case of those who will not act because unqualified in that speciality, it is a fear of finally having to be the real thing. When your whole life has been one long rehersal the raising of the curtain for the First Night is not always a welcome event. So Nurse Smith listens to the howling through the lavatory door rather than act wrongly and Constable Jones watches the stripy tape flutter around the perimeter of the silent house and waits for the Armed Response Team.
Perhaps, in the case of those who make these regulations, it is a peverted delicacy. Some are offended by the eruption of death or violence into their paper world, by the bloody evidence that not everything is covered by their rules. Below that delicacy, deeper and colder than mere personal malice, is a hatred of efficacy.
How do we get our nerve back?
(Cross posted in Samizdata. Comments are open there.)