Open Writing

Before the days of National Health, in the early 1930s, medicine was dispensed at the doctor’s surgery. I can remember the brightly coloured liquids in beautiful glass containers sitting on top of the divider behind which potions and pills were prepared.

The bottles containing these brightly coloured liquids would be removed and replaced by unseen hands. Magical. It was disappointing when a lady wearing a white coat emerged from behind the screen with either a bottle or a pill box. Very mundane!

My favourite medicine as a child was Virol and my most hated, senna tea, especially when sultanas were added. They meant the taste lasted longer, as they had to be chewed.

Pills seem to have replaced most medicines these days, although TCP is still around. TCP stands for Trichlorophenol Methyliodo Salicyl in H2O. I have always been fascinated with words and I learned a great deal from reading labels – none it very useful though.

Zambuck was an ointment. My grandma sent tins of it to my father when he was in France in the First World War. He was blown up and landed in an old bomb crater with rusty barbed wire. His thumb was injured and turned septic. Zambuck cured it. No Blighty for him!

Looking back, some of the treatments were quite archaic. For instance, when I was five in 1931, I was taken to Mill Hill Fever Hospital with typhoid fever, and they cut off all my hair. I remember liquid paraffin with fresh orange juice was not very tasty.

When I returned two years later with diphtheria and laryngitis, they left my hair alone, but I was put in a steam tent – a blanket cave – wearing just my pyjama top. A blanket was pulled aside at regular intervals for an injection in my bottom.

In those days you were issued with a number on admission, and The Examiner printed each day the numbers of those patients who were dangerously or seriously ill. (Not many people had a telephone in those days.) I had the doubtful honour of being included in this list with both of the above ailments.

We never saw our parents until we were walking about, and then we saw them to wave to only. It didn’t make us feel much better. One thing I do remember is receiving by post a parcel from my grandparents containing an Oxo tin inside which were lily of the valley flowers laid on a bed of moss. Still my favourite flowers.

The other humorous thing which happened was when I was due to go home. My clothes for going home arrived and inside the parcel was a celluloid doll with a note from Dad saying he’d sent the doll to look after my togs. The nurses found me sobbing my heart out. I didn’t know that togs meant clothes.

After these two forays I was taken to the clinic in Ramsden Street for ultraviolet treatment. We all sat around wearing loin cloths and goggles and were turned round, much like meat on a spit.

My younger brother had to be circumcised, and this was done at home on the kitchen table. Most unhygienic!

When I returned to Mill Hill with scarlet fever aged eight, all I remember is the fun I had with Jo Dodds. Her father was the editor of the Examiner, and Jo had a nanny – Mary-Poppins-full-uniform-type. There’s posh!

We were in a ground floor ward, and at visiting time I kept cave outside the toilet whilst Jo went into the loo, stood on the toilet seat and opened the window. Her nanny passed through sweets, biscuits, buns, etc, which we hid in our lockers to be consumed after lights out or when the nurses were absent.

Jo and I entertained our captive audience with ‘music’ played on combs with cellophane wrapped around them. I bet the other children were glad when Jo and I went home.

Whilst the Hospice was being built in the grounds of Mill Hill, they were given an office. And once the Hospice was complete except for furniture, staff, etc., I went back to Mill Hill to man the telephone. BT were on strike so no phone at the Hospice – and no, I had nothing whatsoever to do with the demolition of Mill Hill.

Having had more than my share of illness, operations, etc., the one thing that beats any medicine is a sense of humour. It has got me into and out of many a scrape. In other words ‘Laughter is the best medicine.’

In the hopes of raising a smile, I included this item from the Ross on Wye Christmas newsletter:

When Neil Armstrong first set foot on the moon, his first words were, “That’s one small step for man, one giant step for mankind.” These words were heard by millions, but just before Neil entered the lander he made this enigmatic remark, “Good luck, Mr. Gorsky.”

Many people thought it was a casual remark concerning some rival Soviet cosmonaut. However, on checking, there was no Gorsky in either the Russian or American space programmes.

Over the years many people questioned Neil about his statement, but he always just smiled. Twenty-six years later a reporter brought up the question again. This time Neil responded. Mr. Gorsky had died, so Neil felt he could answer.

Way back in 1938 when he was a boy in a small Midwest town, he was playing baseball with a friend in the back yard. His friend hit the ball over the fence into the neighbours’ back yard. Their name was Mr. and Mrs. Gorsky. As he leaned down to pick up the ball, young Neil heard Mrs. Gorsky shouting at Mr. Gorsky, “Sex! You want sex? You’ll get sex when the kid next door walks on the moon!”