Knowledge is a powerful beast waiting to be tamed. Well sometimes the beast is more a feral hamster waiting to be put out of its misery. Certainly the pursuit of knowledge is an admirable thing, or, as I found after several hours researching Cypriot history on the internet; an abject waste of time. No beast was tamed with my Google search, but I do now know:
* Donkeys kill more people annually than train crashes (what about moufflon?)
* On average three Britons die every year testing nine volt batteries with their tongues.
* Livestock is a poor choice for a wedding gift (this comes under social etiquette.)
* It is physically impossible to lick your elbow.
* Whitehouse.com is definitely not, I repeat not, about the White House.
Prithee, scoff not at my ignorance.
Why the obsession with knowledge? In a blink-of-the-eye our warriors of learning will return to the battlefield – school holidays are nearly over. Those wee sponges of brains that have absorbed weeks of Ninja Turtles can be wrung out and refilled with useful information like ‘turtles can breath through their butts’ (true, apparently). Parents all over Cyprus can stop breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth in order to calm themselves. To show solidarity with the scholastic multitudes I will no longer waste my mornings idly chatting to my friends but instead contribute to a hegemonic discourse on populist beliefs and insightfully bracket my non-essentialist views. No, I’m not sure what that means either.
A creature I would rather not pursue is the Cyprus medical system. This Hydra of many heads requires each body part to be assigned its own specialist. I recall with nostalgia, the days when the single port of call for all ailments was Mum. Most children of a certain generation have been exposed to that universal panacea known as Mother’s Spit, applied liberally with a tissue. This super saliva was used for everything from an insect bite to open heart surgery. I have a friend whose mother used it to cauterise a bullet wound. I tell no lies.
Alternatively, one skipped off to the trusty General Practitioner. The GP would discreetly treat that nasty rash you picked up in Bangkok or plop a bit of plaster on a fractured limb. All manner of nasties could be treated with a course of penicillin which would be prescribed in undecipherable handwriting and dispensed by the local chemist. Of course penicillin being standard procedure, the prescription was just a personal comment on the bearer – an in joke if you like between the GP and his sidekick the apothecary.
In Cyprus there is no such animal as the vanilla GP, just the plethora of specialists. Not only does this ensure that everyone who went to medical school gets a slice of the pie but patients need to self diagnose in broad terms then choose the most appropriate doctor. This is very much how children choose pokemon. “I choose you ‘Pikachu’” and off you trot to the endocrinologist. I thus made an appointment with the ‘Wortortle’. Some medical procedures would seem more appropriate if the doctor bought you dinner first, and plied you with a bottle of wine… or perhaps two. I use this as one of my criteria when weighing up the necessity of the visit. However, when the receptionist recently called to arrange an appointment the answer had to be “I’ll be there with bells on.” She failed to detect the sarcasm; but I’m sure she smelt the fear.
Slouched shoulders and a sullen expression were read as unbridled enthusiasm, and having insightfully deciphered I was in a willing mood, the ‘Wortortle’ showed me to the changing room. Just quietly, there is something about walking into a brightly lit room with no pants on that makes you feel kind of cheap. Certainly not something I am in the habit of doing without first consuming a bottle of wine… or perhaps two. Still, nothing ventured nothing gained, and at certain times you must wrestle with the medical beast in order to know that everything is, I employ a technical term here, “tickety boo.”
It is very tempting to head to the Solonion book shop, purchase a copy of Gray’s Anatomy and cram a bit of medical knowledge into my ummm… brain. Then I may know a more interesting term to use than brain. I could also potentially save myself fifteen pounds and an experience that makes me feel like I should be the one getting paid. However it is all in the pursuit of knowledge. When it comes to our personal biological beasties, being informed is a very very good thing. There are some things penicillin or Mother’s Spit just won’t fix.
Speaking of saliva… did you try to lick your elbow?
