A Test of Patients. Martin Atkinson

perhaps? After all, we were near to Heathrow airport.

      I hurried back outside to find that where there had once been the bonfire, there was now just a blackened shallow hole and the appearance of a nurse who, having not seen me go indoors, was looking anxiously at my smouldering gloves and smoking boots in the spot where she had last seen me tending the fire. It was the perfect Tom and Jerry cartoon or Pythonesque comedy scene, which would have been complete if I had reappeared with a blackened face and tattered, scorched clothing. All around, for as far as I could see, there were small puffs of smoke emanating from other gardens and some burning debris, which had melted one or two small holes in a sheet of corrugated plastic that covered a gap between the two surgery buildings and was now also threatening to take a hold on the surgery’s wooden roof.

      I’d at least had the sense (perhaps the only bit of sense in the whole situation) to connect a hosepipe in case the bonfire had got out of control and this was directed onto the roof to douse the burgeoning flames. Fortunately, the debris which had been spread far and wide by the explosion had clearly not landed on anything else inflammable and was quickly being extinguished by the now steadily falling rain, thus limiting the collateral damage. A second lucky escape indeed. But what could have caused such an explosion? Surely not the petrol I’d used, as that had gone off with a flash when the bonfire first ignited.

      I concluded that other than the unlikely scenario of a meteorite landing at that precise location, the only possible explanation was that there must have been an unexhausted aerosol can amongst the rubbish going onto the fire. This was never proven as the debris had been scattered over such a large area. What would have happened if I hadn’t decided to wander off at that moment to answer the call of nature doesn’t bear thinking about, but it only served to enhance the sense of immortality that I had as a young man and that someone was looking after me for a purpose.

      I do, however, now always check rubbish before I set light to a bonfire (not of course, I hasten to add, that I would use this means of disposal of surgery waste any longer) and I have learnt the lesson not to use an accelerant on recalcitrant flames – most of the time!

       Murphy’s law

      Have you had one of those days when if something can go wrong it will? Well, probably yes and more than once, but a few seconds in just one day stood out above all others for me in the proving of Murphy’s law.

      When I bought my practice, there was some ancient equipment amongst which was an old-fashioned hot water geyser and an autoclave that would give practice standards inspectors an apoplectic fit today. This autoclave periodically emanated suspicious hissing and banging noises and had duly been replaced as a matter of priority with the new all singing, all dancing, Big Matron model or whatever, but was (rather foolishly in retrospect) kept as a reserve.

      I should have realised the toast was already starting to fall butter side down when, with a busy day ahead, the receptionist and a nurse called in sick, so I was down to one staff member to perform all duties. No matter, she was my best nurse and, of course, female nurses can multitask much better than male vets. Morning surgery went uneventfully enough and there weren’t even any complications with ops, but then the cycle of events that would define this day began to whirl faster.

      Big Matron had refused to cooperate when sterilising the instruments, and the engineer from the service company couldn’t come for at least twenty-four hours, so the model from the Ark had been wheeled out for one last mission. The old autoclave was positioned on a sink below the geyser and left to clunk and wheeze through its cycle while solo-nurse and I began afternoon surgery.

      After one or two routine cases, my stress level started to increase as a panicking couple rushed in with a German Shepherd dog with a cut foot. Surprisingly, for non-professionals, they had done a pretty effective job with a pressure bandage and things didn’t look too serious after all, although you can do without this sort of emergency on a busy day. Shane was normally a mild-mannered dog and his owners were very passable doubles for Action Man and Barbie Doll.

      ‘Action Man’ was far too vain and worried about pulling a muscle to risk lifting the dog on to the examination table, even though he could have done it single-handedly, so ‘Barbie’ was left to give Shane the leg up. As she tottered in her stilettos with her mini-skirt riding up, I rushed to assist her while ‘Action Man’ stood back vainly with muscles bulging.

      As the dressing was removed from Shane’s paw, the previously successful haemostasis was uncorked and the blood began to emanate from the wound. Solo-nurse went off to fetch some more dressings as I staunched the flow, while ‘Action Man’ gingerly stepped forward to hold Shane’s head.

      At this point, a loud whoosh and mighty explosion, followed by a scream and the sound of gushing water emanated from the next room as simultaneously all the lights went out and plunged the room into semi-darkness.