the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Dr Bassett, naturally I accept your rebuke concerning my report, and I note your assertion that I have a tendency to overdiagnose. I am a professional, and I strive to serve the interests of my patients and of this facility to the best of my ability. If that ability is deficient in your estimation, or if my efforts fall short of the standards which you profess to hold, I can only apologise and attempt to improve my performance. However, I cannot help feeling that your criticism is part of a strategy – conscious or otherwise – to remind me at every opportunity that, technically, you are the senior practitioner at this facility. Perhaps you are overcompensating for some insecurity you feel as a woman in a position of authority over a male colleague. Whatever the reason, I assure you I am well aware of your superior status and need no reminding.
‘Zonk’ was intended as a joke. Obviously it was ill-advised. I realise that I am attempting to ingratiate myself with you, and compromising my professional judgment in doing so.
NB: I would prefer you to use my title and surname in any communications. Casual use of my first name in these matters strikes me as patronising.
Dr W. Hatchjaw BA, RCPsyc, DDSB
From the desk of Dr Bassett.
Memo to Dr Hatchjaw.
Oh dear. What’s got into you, Wallace? Sorry, Dr Hatchjaw, if you insist. Although it seems a bit silly to be using our full titles when we’re just sending each other informal memos. But I seem to have offended you, and I’m sorry. However, there was no call for that crack about the high standards that I ‘profess’ to hold. That’s not very nice.
I know the whole status issue is a bit awkward, but I do my best. As for the stuff about gender, let’s not even go there. The fact is, I was simply making an observation on what you wrote in your report. I’m sure you’ll do excellent work with Patient FJ, and I’m glad you’re keeping a close eye on him. From what I saw of him during his admission, he looks as if he could be quite a handful! But you’re always very good with that type of man, Wallace. My goodness, rather you than me!
Look, let’s not get into a misunderstanding over this. If you’d like to discuss FJ, and your treatment plan, I’m more than happy to talk about it. If not, let’s just have a chat anyway. Why not drop in for a cup of tea later?
Eudora
From the desk of Dr Hatchjaw.
Memo to Dr Bassett.
Dr Bassett, thank you for your kind offer to discuss my treatment plan for patient FJ, and your generous invitation to ‘drop in for a cup of tea’. As it happens, I feel no need to discuss my patient with you at this stage, and regrettably I find myself too busy to accept the offer of tea, which holds little appeal for me, to be frank with you.
Hatchjaw
From the desk of Dr Bassett.
Memo to Dr Hatchjaw.
Suit yourself.
What the fuck?
Wait, sorry, I’ll start again.
Patient FJ
Recovery Diary 1
On second thoughts, should this actually be diary entry number two? Only if I go back and treat that first bit I wrote as entry number one, and according to Hatchjaw I can’t go back over anything I’ve written and change it.
Don’t they realise what that means to a writer? To be unable to rewrite? I always begin a day’s writing by going back over whatever I’m working on, from the beginning, and tinkering with it obsessively, then writing a bit of new stuff, which I then rewrite the next day along with everything else I’ve written so far. Obviously, there’s a process of diminishing returns as I write less and less new stuff each day, but somehow I’ve still managed to finish several books, so fuck Achilles and the Tortoise he rode in on.
Do people still know about Achilles and the Tortoise? By people I mean the younger readers to whom I am appealing less and less, according to my current agent (my sixth, which isn’t as bad as it sounds as one of them died while representing me, and another was jailed for assault). She says my writing is getting oldfashioned, and would claim that by tossing in things like that reference to Greek mythology I’m proving her point. Wait. Is the story of Achilles and the Tortoise from Greek mythology? I mean, I know Achilles was Greek, but maybe the story is actually a fable, from someone like Aesop, or someone later, that French one. What’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue. God, it’s really annoying not having access to the internet. Not even a reference dictionary! What are they trying to do to us? And writing in longhand! It’s been years since I’ve written anything longer than a cheque by hand. It starts to hurt even if I have to write my address on the back. But cheques aren’t used any more. She’s right, I am old-fashioned. Look at the way I wrote ‘to whom I am appealing less and less …’ back there, and how I’m indenting the paragraphs, even though Hatchjaw says nobody is ever going to read it except me, and it’s just a facilitation tool in the recovery process. So at least I know where I am, even if the details are a bit puzzling, because there’s only one place where they talk about things like facilitation tools in the recovery process, and that’s in good old rehabilifuckingtation.
But this place doesn’t seem like any rehab I’ve been in before. I’ve only gone halfway along the corridor so far, partly because I was feeling a bit sick and I got dizzy. There’s a lump on my forehead, which may have been caused by trying to get out of bed when I was, in fact, underneath it. Which reminds me of something I used to say to women if I found myself staying the night and they asked me which side of the bed I preferred. ‘The top,’ I used to say. God, I was a funny drunk.
The other thing that made me turn back when I got halfway along the corridor was the noise coming from the room at the far end of it. There was something familiar about that sound and the voices making it that discouraged me from going any further.
I’d stopped at an intersection in the corridor, like a crossroads, with a passage stretching away on either side of me. I remained very still so that the nausea I was experiencing would think I had gone away, and leave me alone. It did, and as I slowly turned around to go back to my room I saw someone peering at me from an alcove about 20 yards along the passage to my left. As soon as he saw I’d spotted him he darted back into his hidey-hole. I thought about going to try and find him but he didn’t seem to want my company, and I didn’t have the energy for a confrontation with a potentially hostile stranger. He probably felt the same way about me.
It was when I got back to my room that I met Hatchjaw. He was lurking in the doorway and sprang out to introduce himself. I would describe him as a dark-haired man a little below average height, with a long face, bushy eyebrows, dandruff, and bad manners. After telling me his name he just gazed at me with a faint smile. I could see the dandruff on his shoulders even though he was wearing a white coat. I thought about the snowflakes that settled on a white bed sheet my mother once hung out to dry on a January day many years ago, even though snow had been forecast. ‘Nonsense,’ she said, ‘these weathermen don’t know what they’re talking about. If it snows today I’ll eat my hat.’ Later, when she was making a chicken pie, she constructed a little hat out of pastry and ate it at dinner, very seriously, and my sister and I laughed until I nearly wet myself. My father tried to laugh
