15September2005

This is a true fairy tale. We need stories like this to take our minds off the ear-bashing we’ve had from the politicians over the last month.

Let me set the scene. It’s Paris, early spring 2005. Maria from California, as we have now come to know her describes herself as a 60 something widow of two years, she’s in Paris with her daughter. She is looking for somewhere to dine and she stops outside Le Temps Perdu, an upmarket Paris restaurant. The menu, as so often is the case, is displayed on the wall outside. As she begins her perusal she’s joined by a handsome, well as handsome as any sixty seven year old male can look. They begin reading the menu together. His french Maria describes as atrocious. You’ll find out later why this is so. In the meantime just picture the lovely 60 plus widow of two years on a spring evening in Paris reading the menu on a restaurant wall with a five foot ten sixty seven year old male of medium build with sandy blonde hair. Not actually what you’d call romantic. Somehow our sandy blonde haired sixty seven year old blurts out in a Kiwi accent. “Bon soir Madame. parlez – vous anglais.” “Oui” replies our widow. “Parlez vous francais” “Non” replies the sixty seven year old. “Then let’s speak English” suggests the widow. And so they did for the next hour and a half. Unmitigated, uninterrupted English.

It transpires that he’s in France to visit his daughter in Lyon. She found this out as a result of them finding the outside menu acceptable and they’ve gone inside the Le Tempes Perdu. Probably because they both met in the street for the first time it’s only proper that they sit themselves at neighbouring tables. Very French. They strike up small talk. She tells him of her recent widowhood. He tells her amongst other things that he used to be a lawyer in New Zealand and now is retired. That explains his execrable French. She expresses surprise that there are lawyers in New Zealand. She always thought of it as a country, clean and green and free of predators. Their laughter transcends the gap between their two tables. She notices his white teeth. Obviously his own. His hair is uncommonly sandy blonde for a man of his obvious years. She wonders whether it could be due to Grecian 2000? “May I ask how old you’ll be at your next birthday” he asks. This was a trick he learnt from dealing with his elderly clients. It always caught them off guard. “I’m sixty something” she replies. “You don’t look a day over 50” he flatteringly responds. He orders the beef “bouef bourguinon”. She decides on the ”magret canard” (I hope you’re enjoying all this French. I feel it gives an air of authenticity to the story). What I omitted to tell you was the widow’s daughter is in the background. All the time she’s sitting alongside her mother. Saying nothing. When our blonde haired retired lawyer excuses himself “excuse moi ou est les toilettes” the daughter whispers in the mother’s ear. “Ma, he’s hitting on you”. I’m not sure I know what that means but then you must remember these women come from California.

And so the evening meanders on. He tells her tales of his life in the law. His notable court victories and losses when he was younger. Clients he couldn’t stand. But most of all the wonderful “little people” as he called them had been privileged to meet and act for. Candle lights on the table flicker romantically. She looks over. He’s finished his boef. And now he’s folding the grand napkin he’d tucked up under his chin to catch the gravy before it got to his tie and slowly he stands up. He bows slightly and in a nasal Kiwi he whispers “Au revoir Mesdames”. And that was it. He’d gone into the Paris night. Well not quite.

It now transpires our Californian widow who has since revealed herself as Maria is searching for our retired lawyer. She’s even employed an Auckland private investigator to find him. Maria now tells that he had “the devil in his eye. Likes to travel and speaks atrocious French.” Amazingly they never introduced themselves. So far the search has proved fruitless.

Like a couple of nameless ships passing in the night. And if she finds her Romeo, Maria is not sure what she would say to him. And I wouldn’t tell you anyway. Maybe she’ll ask him why he chose the beef rather than the duck. And by the way if you’re the 67 year old retired lawyer reading this you may want to dye your hair a different hue.

08September2005

Are you getting the feeling that the pollsters are trying to horn in on the exercise of our democratic right to vote on Saturday the 18th? For the last few weeks the media, print, radio and TV have been bombarding us with the results of some of the polls they’ve carried out. Polls where anonymous, faceless voters give their gratuitous opinions as to how, or for whom they will, will not, might not vote for on Election Day. Who commissions these exercises? Who decides who gets polled? How are the respondents selected? Who pays the pollsters?

Well unsuccessfully I tried to find out. In the end I decided to conduct my own poll. The Lundon-Dodgy poll. Now we’re told that all these polls are conducted according to a strict scientific process. So was mine. I got the phonebooks for Wellington and Marlborough and stuck a sharp needle through them both. Apparently this is what the experts do. It’s called random selection. I then opened up the books and came up with a great number of names which had been pierced by the needle. They were going to be my respondents. To be even more random and scientific I took a pierced name from every fourth page. I ended up with about 200 names. Then I started my phone calls. I’ve never had the honour of being contacted by a political pollster but then I’ve never won a Lotto prize either. I’ve had calls from just about every other pollster from soap powder to insurance phoning me just as I’m about to sit down to my evening meal enquiring as to whether I agree or strongly disagree to the statements about their products. I’m usually very abrupt in my response. Like hanging up. I started my calls at about 5pm and prepared myself for a fair bit of verbal abuse. First call. “Ki Ora, you’ve got the office of the Health & Disability Commissioner. Our office is closed now but leave a message and we’ll contact you during our normal office hours. If you are enquiring about a wheelchair or mobility scooter press 1 …” I hung up. The second call. “Good evening, I’m from the Lundon-Dodgy poll. I’m enquiring about your voting preference in the forthcoming general election. Would you care to answer a few questions?” “No need. We’re all Labour here. My dear old dad who passed away two years ago last October told me if it hadn’t been for Labour and Michael Joseph Savage I wouldn’t’ have been born.” “So you’re all voting Labour?” “Sure am.” “How many are there in your household?” “Six of us, all voting Labour. The wife and the four kids. The oldest of the kids is 40 and they’re all still at home. With this interest free student loan of Labour’s I reckon they’ll be here for the rest of their days. Got Michael Joseph Savage to thank for that.” I thanked him and hung up. I recorded that as a 600% swing to Labour.

The next ten calls were not as clear cut. Two hung up on me. They were in the middle of a meal. I understood. Then one dear old lady thought Jenny Shipley was one of the nicest women she’d ever met. So she was going to vote for ACT. I tried to explain to her that Jenny Shipley was no longer a Member of Parliament nor a member of ACT nor a candidate. “Don’t worry dear, she’s still a lovely woman.” The next call began positively. The respondent had either finished his meal or had had nothing to eat. My first question. “If the election was held tomorrow which party would you be most likely to vote for?” “Well that’s none of your business it is? I thought this was supposed to be a secret ballot. I mean what’s the point of all those screens they have around in school assembly halls on Election Day? Obvious, to preserve our privacy. My vote is between me and my maker. That’s what I don’t like about you pollsters. Invading my privacy and trying to engineer the outcome of an election.”

Well I got through to a about another five respondents. Their replies were pretty much the same. “Mind your own business.” “What’s it got to do with you?” or “I bet you’re working for the Greens/ACT/United Future.” So after all this time I’d only got one recordable positive response. My second call. A 600% swing to Labour. And so the following day on National Radio’s ‘Morning Report’ what do I hear. ‘And the result of a new poll out today. The Lundon-Dodgy poll. It records a 600% swing to Labour. The poll was conducted of 10 eligible voters and has a margin of error of plus or minus 90%.
I’m beginning to agree with some politicians. The only accurate poll is on Election Day.

01September2005

Anaesthetists have had enough of not being recognised. They want their patients to see more of them and their personality. The whole anaesthetist. For most of us who have had all but brief encounters with anaesthetists the most we get to see is someone standing alongside the operating table. Green/blue gowned depending on the mood head and hair swathed in a surgical bonnet. Hands rubber gloved. And the face hidden behind the surgical mask. All you get to see is in Gilbert & Sullivan terms “a pair of sparkling eyes” before you’re are carried off into that drug induced pre-operative sleep which can produce anything from dancing leprechauns, smiling crocodiles to skydiving without a parachute. Now these people who have these great skills whereby they are able to put us blissfully to sleep which in turn produces great colourful experiences want to shed their masks. They want to come out and be recognised for what and who they are.

How many doctor TV dramas have you seen where the one dealing with the anaesthetics gets the staring role? None. They are the guys all gowned and masked up, well in the background. Basically all you get to see is their backs as they watch the blip blip blips on a screen. Centre stage the camera zooms in on the furrowed brow of the surgeon as deftly with his elegant hands sutures a pumping palpitating heart. And standing by gaggles of attractive nurses swoon at his skills. And when the job is done and the patient comes to, the anaesthetist is long gone. Turned off his blipping screen, put away his tubes and gone. Unheralded. Unrecognised. Unknown. Well that is all about to change. The anaesthetists are having a conference in Nelson this month. They want to develop a higher profile. They want patients to know what their role is in the scheme of things. They think that getting off the masks could help. The only reason masks are worn is to stop bugs. But research has shown masks could be quite ineffective at bug stopping. I am inclined to agree. Imagine on your next trip to the operating theatre you saw this tall handsome dark eyed mustachioed giant of a man, not all that dissimilar to Clark Gable standing at the head of the operating table in his velvet smoking jacket nonchalantly twirling the syringe he is shortly going to plunge into one of your veins. “Hello I’m Rhett your anaesthetist”. His smile reveals a perfect set of teeth, whiter than any white you have ever seen. You’d never have seen them behind a mask. “After you have looked at me for a few minutes I am going to put you to sleep. But I want you to remember me. Because if I wasn’t here doing the job I am going to do, things could be quite painful for you”. He smiles again. Slowly counting angels you begin to fall into that pre-operative slumber. One of your last memories is those sparkling teeth. Reminds you to get a new toothbrush if you come out of this.

Well I am all for it. Unmask the anaesthetists. Lets see the glory of their visage. Just imagine going to their conference in Nelson. A conference where the success of the key note speakers is usually judged not only by how quickly they can send their audience off to sleep but how long they can keep them in that state. At the Nelson conference they are going to debate the theme “Give me one good reason why I should wear a mask”. Some will argue “well Zorro, Batman and the Lone Ranger all wore masks and it didn’t seem to do their public profile any harm” Maybe but mask wearing didn’t help Ned Kelly. Look out for “The Unmasked Anaethetist” coming soon to an operating theatre near you.