sixteen-year-old. It’s one reason my boyfriends all tend to be older. Plus I find it never helps to wear school clothes when you’re bunking off, or shitty clothes when you’re feeling like shit. Rookie mistakes, both.
‘Good manners, haven’t you?’ I say, as he helps me put my backpack on. His fingers brush the fabric of my top and he gives a kind of embarrassed laugh, like I’ve caught him staring, which I have.
I push down my right foot and circle my bike once around the surgery car park.
‘Hey, I saw your cousin driving through town yesterday night. Around midnight?’
‘Oh,’ he says, the smile dropping instantly from his face.
‘What’s his name?’
He seems to consider for a second, before answering, ‘Hunter’.
‘He’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?’ I say casually. ‘I’ve seen him around at parties. He gets way too stoned and he’s pretty rude.’
Max Walker’s face is very still. He shrugs.
‘Don’t you think he’s a dick?’
He shrugs again and looks away towards the door of the surgery. ‘I have to go in now,’ he says quietly.
‘’Kay. See you around.’ I hold up one hand in a salute, heading for the car park exit. I look back. He’s looking over at me, getting smaller as I bike away.
‘Bye,’ he says, and lifts up his hand to wave, wagging it back and forth like little kids do. ‘Bye,’ he repeats.
I bike away, thinking maybe Max Walker isn’t so bad after all. In my wing mirror he watches me ride, his head rolls down and he stares at his feet. His shoulders rise and fall and I realise he is sighing. He raises his head, bites his lip, regards the surgery in front of him solemnly, and he steps out onto the tarmac.
Archie
M edicine, my field of science, is always evolving and in flux. Some studies are bound to fail; methods of care we use today may be extinct in a few decades; people we treat still die. Approaches being used in busy centres like London and Manchester may not reach country hospitals for several years after their approval.
Most things here in Hemingway – including traffic, pedestrians, the passing of time and changes to medical care – are slow.
I moved here from Delhi almost twenty years ago to train as a general practitioner in London. During my studies, I spent six months in paediatrics at St Thomas’ Hospital, and came into contact with birth defects, deformities and sometimes illnesses that were fatal in the early years of a person’s life. The trick is to treat the sick like you treat the well. More than anything, they need to feel normal.
When I qualified as a GP, I moved to a practice in small, intimate Hemingway. Watching patients carefully, closely, over years makes an art out of diagnosis and prognosis. I am my patients’ first point of contact for diagnosis, and I provide continuing treatment, advice and evaluation for all their medical conditions. Perhaps, if I tried, I could predict the health of Hemingway’s individuals over the course of their lives. I could tell you who might be at high risk of cancer or diabetes or liver failure. I could tell you which children will become obese, which might develop eating disorders, and which might have problems with drugs.
Due to my experience, I take most of the patients who are under twenty-one. It has become evident to me, after twelve years at Hemingway, that I have most contact with my young patients before the age of five and between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. I see the under-fives for vaccinations, chicken pox, colic, whooping cough, scarlet fever, the mumps, diarrhoea and parental hypochondria. I see the teenagers because of sex.
Thirteen seems young to start talking about sex, but I have heard it said that children are getting older. I think adults are getting younger. I also suspect, however, that the sexuality of adolescents has not changed in nature since we were apes. In fact, I am certain that in medieval times, in Hippocrates’ days and through the somewhat
‘Good manners, haven’t you?’ I say, as he helps me put my backpack on. His fingers brush the fabric of my top and he gives a kind of embarrassed laugh, like I’ve caught him staring, which I have.
I push down my right foot and circle my bike once around the surgery car park.
‘Hey, I saw your cousin driving through town yesterday night. Around midnight?’
‘Oh,’ he says, the smile dropping instantly from his face.
‘What’s his name?’
He seems to consider for a second, before answering, ‘Hunter’.
‘He’s kind of a dick, isn’t he?’ I say casually. ‘I’ve seen him around at parties. He gets way too stoned and he’s pretty rude.’
Max Walker’s face is very still. He shrugs.
‘Don’t you think he’s a dick?’
He shrugs again and looks away towards the door of the surgery. ‘I have to go in now,’ he says quietly.
‘’Kay. See you around.’ I hold up one hand in a salute, heading for the car park exit. I look back. He’s looking over at me, getting smaller as I bike away.
‘Bye,’ he says, and lifts up his hand to wave, wagging it back and forth like little kids do. ‘Bye,’ he repeats.
I bike away, thinking maybe Max Walker isn’t so bad after all. In my wing mirror he watches me ride, his head rolls down and he stares at his feet. His shoulders rise and fall and I realise he is sighing. He raises his head, bites his lip, regards the surgery in front of him solemnly, and he steps out onto the tarmac.
Archie
M edicine, my field of science, is always evolving and in flux. Some studies are bound to fail; methods of care we use today may be extinct in a few decades; people we treat still die. Approaches being used in busy centres like London and Manchester may not reach country hospitals for several years after their approval.
Most things here in Hemingway – including traffic, pedestrians, the passing of time and changes to medical care – are slow.
I moved here from Delhi almost twenty years ago to train as a general practitioner in London. During my studies, I spent six months in paediatrics at St Thomas’ Hospital, and came into contact with birth defects, deformities and sometimes illnesses that were fatal in the early years of a person’s life. The trick is to treat the sick like you treat the well. More than anything, they need to feel normal.
When I qualified as a GP, I moved to a practice in small, intimate Hemingway. Watching patients carefully, closely, over years makes an art out of diagnosis and prognosis. I am my patients’ first point of contact for diagnosis, and I provide continuing treatment, advice and evaluation for all their medical conditions. Perhaps, if I tried, I could predict the health of Hemingway’s individuals over the course of their lives. I could tell you who might be at high risk of cancer or diabetes or liver failure. I could tell you which children will become obese, which might develop eating disorders, and which might have problems with drugs.
Due to my experience, I take most of the patients who are under twenty-one. It has become evident to me, after twelve years at Hemingway, that I have most contact with my young patients before the age of five and between the ages of thirteen and eighteen. I see the under-fives for vaccinations, chicken pox, colic, whooping cough, scarlet fever, the mumps, diarrhoea and parental hypochondria. I see the teenagers because of sex.
Thirteen seems young to start talking about sex, but I have heard it said that children are getting older. I think adults are getting younger. I also suspect, however, that the sexuality of adolescents has not changed in nature since we were apes. In fact, I am certain that in medieval times, in Hippocrates’ days and through the somewhat
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