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This isn’t my opening paragraph. The next one is, though, and when/if you bother to read that far, you’ll quickly realise why I’ve made the switch. If I had opened with the paragraph that follows, there would have been no need to write any more because no-one would even have bothered to get to the end of it and, to mix a glorious metaphor, the ensuing pearls of wisdom would have fallen on deaf ears. So, let’s now start the blog.

My consuetudinary idleness has sometimes earned me the reputation of being a cunctator. Some see me as thewless but my perpetual condition of aesthesia requires little in the way of displacement. Careful auscultation (of the metaphoric rather than aesculapian variety) is enough to gauge my existential condition and I am not emulous with regard to the achievements of others. Indeed, the concinnity of sensations and perceptions produces a satisfying sense of oneness. I am sometimes cautelous and often pervicacious to rhadamanthine extremes but while this may all be an accurate assessment of my ‘moi’, its only real value is to introduce the subject of logomachy.

If you’re still here, thanks. In case you didn’t know it, logomachy is a dispute about words or a battle fought with words and, as you may have guessed from that paragraph, that’s sort of what this is all about. In fact, it goes back to a question I’ve asked (others and myself) before: does education help or hinder a writer’s development? One of my basic replies when asked about advice to writers is ‘Trust your own voice’. Too many people try to emulate others or assume that ‘writing’ means posh words, flowery asides, towering metaphors and so, when they write, the unique person they are gets trampled on in the gush of words. (Hey, listen, if Shakespeare can get away with ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles’, I can trample people with gushes if I want.)

Education, despite what our present minister in charge of it seems to think, means opening doors, expanding horizons, leading people out of darkness and ignorance into light. It doesn’t mean reducing them to clones, making them all fit a predetermined pattern. It encourages critical thinking, individual investigations, a belief that curiosity can lead – legitimately – in just about any direction. Rather than making people conform to a set of rules, it liberates them.

In a way, that horrible ‘opening’ paragraph illustrates how destructive misguided education can be. Most of the obscure words that made it incomprehensible came from the excellent wordsmith site which, if you register, emails you a word a day. I’ve been collecting them, not necessarily with the idea of using them but because I just love words, especially ones which I doubt I’ll ever use. Of course it’s good to expand one’s vocabulary – the more words you have available to you, the more thinking you can do, and the more refined and nuanced that thinking can be. But education isn’t about whatever knowledge you can acquire, it’s about what you can do with that knowledge. I collected those words (‘cunctator’, ‘thewless’, etc.) so, theoretically, they equipped me to express myself more completely or with more subtlety. In practice, though, they obscured my meanings, made them inaccessible to most readers. (My apologies if you are one of those who frequently drop ‘concinnity’,  ‘aesculapian’, etc. into your dinner party anecdotes. You’ll be wondering what all the fuss is about.)

But if I don’t intend using them, what’s the point in collecting them? Well, as well as being inherently interesting, like all words, they have a power beyond their actual meaning. They all contribute to the ‘show don’t tell’ cliché. In the popular UK TV sitcom Only Fools and Horses, the central character Del Boy, keen to convey the level of his cosmopolitan sophistication, repeats the words ‘Mange-tout, mange-tout’. By juxtaposing his confidence in what he’s saying with the bafflement of those around him, the writers convey several layers of characterisation and social observation – all with the words ‘mange-tout’. Similarly, if I want to include a quick caricature of a pretentious git (or a failed wannabe writer) in a story, what better way than to simply hear him say ‘Look at that woman’s bursiform appendages. Such displays are either flagitious or, at best, Icarian. Cui bono? Cui bono?’

Mange-tout, mes amis.

P.S. the illustration is courtesy of the fascinating Wordle site..

This is a long overdue thank you blog to the astonishingly dedicated NHS professionals working at all levels in Aberdeen’s Royal Infirmary.

I ended up in their care because one day I was cycling up a long, steep hill when, near the top, I felt a sort of burning in my chest which I’d felt many times before in similar circumstances. This time, though, it was different and I actually felt ill. So I stopped, got off, sat on a bench by the road and passed out. I was only out for seconds but clearly I didn’t look good because a woman stopped her car and came to ask if I was OK. I thanked her for stopping, assured her that I was just out of breath and continued to the all-day seminar for which I’d been heading.

I told my GP about it the following day. He organised scans, an angiogram and things which told them that my aortic valve wasn’t working properly and should be replaced. OK, enough of the diagnostics, except to note that, despite the surgeon’s necessary warnings that heart surgery was qualitatively different from, say, a haircut, I was never overly concerned at the prospect. That doesn’t mean I’m brave or anything. I suppose I just felt lucky that the problem had been identified and was going to be sorted. The strange thing was that the idea of being given a new start produced something like exhilaration. And there was no point dwelling on the negatives because, if things didn’t work out, I wouldn’t know anything about it anyway. The surgeon stressed that the choice of whether to have the operation or not was mine and all I could think of was that I was lucky to be living in a country where I have that choice and don’t have to pay for it.

By the way, while it obviously does make sense not to dwell on the negatives, the legal implications of all medical procedures mean that part of the admissions and pre-op process involves staff reminding you of all the things that can go wrong and asking you to sign to say that you understand and accept them.

The surgeon was very attentive, visited several times, explained it all and altogether had a reassuring air. I confessed that, thanks to an anaesthetist friend, I’d been allowed to see a thoracic operation at first hand to use in one of my books and that I hadn’t painted my fictional surgeon in a very flattering light. As we were talking, a young medical student from China interrupted us (very politely and apologetically) to ask my permission to be present as an observer at the operation. I said yes, she went away smiling, and the surgeon said ‘I wonder whether she’s going to ask me, too’.

Then it happened. One morning, the anaesthetist arrived, we were chatting away as she gave me stuff to swallow. I remember her telling me that it was preferable to injecting … Then, what seemed like a few seconds later, I remember vague feelings, a tube in my throat, voices, the tube being removed and quite a lot of floating, sleeping, more gentle voices and gradually realising that it was all over.

Then 24 hours in one to one Intensive Care, less than that in the two to one High Dependency Unit and, in just a couple of days, walking about and being fed, looked after, tested for this and that and generally marvelling at the fact that the doctors, nurses, cleaners, auxiliaries, students, whoever – perform similar miracles day after day after day, night after night after night.

They’re all consummate professionals, with skills far beyond those of the care, concern and compassion that are the outward signs of what they do. They’re knowledgable about the medication they hand out so carefully, they suit their tone to individual patients and, however rushed they are, they always find time to answer questions or provide the things the patients ask for. They work 12 hour shifts, arriving at 7 a m and maintaining their air of positivity right through the day. In fact, on the day I went home, there was a major snowfall and one of the day staff was late arriving. She told me that she lived in Fraserburgh (up the coast from Aberdeen) and that the journey to work, which normally took an hour, had taken four that day. The thing that struck me about her story, though, was that on normal days, that meant a working day of fourteen hours – every day. How many other professions do that? And how many carry the responsibility of other people’s health and even lives with them in the process?

This is my inadequate thanks to all of them. In all the column inches spent on the NHS as politicians speak of value for money, cost savings, increased efficiencies, not nearly enough is written on the fundamental human values its staff embody. The sort of profits they generate can’t be listed on balance sheets or hoarded in vaults. No, they have true worth. .

I reckon it’s time to have another look at this birthday we’re celebrating next week. Not for the usual reasons – you know, who the hell brings Myrrh as a present? Where were Health and Safety when that innkeeper got his licence? No, it’s the reality of it that concerns me. For a start, there’s no agreement between the two registrars who recorded the birth. You’ve got Matthew’s quick note saying: ‘Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise; When, as his mother Mary was espoused to Joseph, before they came together, she was found with child of the Holy Ghost. Then Joseph, her husband, being a just man, and not willing to make her a publick example, was minded to put her away privily.’

Fair enough, a reasonable sort of reaction from the guy. Then along comes the obstetric angel Gabriel, tells him it’s cool and that the Holy Ghost did it, so Joseph marries her. But, between 25 and 50 years later, in Luke’s version, Gabriel visits Mary, not Joseph, and gives her the test result. Whichever account you prefer, it’s hard not to feel that Joseph’s getting a bad deal and I think it’s legitimate to speculate on how that crucial exchange between the engaged couple went.

Joe was a hard worker so he was in his shop, putting the finishing touches to a sleigh. Most of the time, there wasn’t much call for sleighs in Galilee but they’d become part of the traditional trappings of that certain time of the year. He was rather surprised when Mary arrived, flushed and slightly breathless.

There was no greeting. Her first words were just ‘Look, Joe. Don’t get mad’.

Joe was surprised.

‘Why should I, honey?’ he said.

He noticed that Mary was avoiding eye contact, looking intently at the runners of the sleigh, smoothing her fingers along them, but too quickly, in a rather agitated way.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Joe. ‘Another of your dreams, is it?’

Mary shook her head. Joe was puzzled. This wasn’t like her. Her days were usually spent quietly beside the river, making Moses baskets out of reeds. She was an untroubled soul.

‘What then?’ he said.

Mary took a deep breath and found the courage to look directly at him.

‘Oh Joe,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have to get married.’

Joe smiled.

‘I know, Baby,’ he said. ‘We’ve been planning it for ages. We’ll …’

‘No. Now. Right away, I mean.’

Joe was an honourable man and he’d resisted forcing his attentions on Mary before marriage so the idea of bringing the ceremony forward wasn’t unattractive but this was sudden, unexpected. She’d shown no such urgency before.

‘Why?’ was all he said.

Her answer was a bombshell.

‘I’m pregnant.’

Joe dropped his adse.

‘Pregnant?’ he said. ‘But, I thought you was a virgin.’

It was a sure sign of the stress he was feeling. Joe was usually a stickler for grammar but in extremis his working class origins rose to the surface.

‘I am a virgin. I am, Joe. But I’m still pregnant,’ said a desperate Mary.

Words such as ‘dirty little scrubber’ pushed their way into Joe’s mind but he bit them back.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘In that case, you’d better go and marry the bloke what done it.’

‘There wasn’t any bloke,’ said Mary.

‘Oh, Act of God, I s’pose,’ sneered Joe.

‘Exactly,’ said Mary. ‘Listen, last night, I was in bed asleep, and suddenly I woke up, and there was this bloke standin by the bed. With big wings stickin out the back. He said . . . Well, he said he was an angel. Called Gabriel.’

Joe paused for a moment, then shook his head.

‘And you fell for it, did you?’

‘Honest, Joe. He never touched me. He never even put down his harp. He just said I’d found favour with God, and I was going to have a baby boy. Said I was goin to be visited. By the Holy Ghost.’

‘That was his mate, I suppose,’ said Joe, wanting to believe her but burning with jealousy.

Mary reached out and touched his hand.

‘This is special, Joe,’ she said. ‘I’m goin to have a baby boy. And he’s gonna be king. And he’s gonna rule over the house of David for ever. And I’m to be blessed among women. Oh, and we’ve got to call the baby Jesus.’

‘Jesus?’ said Joe, the sarcasm dripping from each syllable. ‘Huh, you should’ve realised he was havin you on when he said that.’

Mary frowned. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘It’s obvious, innit? I mean, if he’d said Kevin or Arthur or somethin, it would’ve made sense. But Jesus? Christ!’

Mary couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. It broke Joe’s heart to see them. He did love her so much.

‘There, there,’ he said. ‘Alright, listen. Just … just tell me what else he said.’

Mary sniffed.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘We’ve got to go to Bethlehem to have him.’

‘Bethlehem?’ said Joe. ‘That’s bloody miles! And there’s no obstetrical units there or nothin.’

‘I know,’ said Mary. ‘We’ve got to have him in a stable and lie him in a manger.’

‘A stable and a manger?’ said Joe. ‘That’s ridiculous. Bit of a cock-up if you ask me.’

Mary nodded, still sniffing back the tears.

‘Well, he said it’s the first time they’ve done a saviour.’

Joe put his arm round her and, with his other hand, stroked her hair.

‘When’s it due?’ he asked, his voice now gentle.

‘Sometime around Christmas,’ said Mary.

The two of them sat there, each trying to come to terms with the change in their relationship, a change that was only fully evident to Joe when he suggested that, since Mary was pregnant anyway, they could go to bed. Together.

‘No, Joe,’ said Mary, in her special, little girl voice. ‘I’ve got to be the Virgin Mary, remember?’

‘How long for?’ said Joe.

‘Two thousand years. At least.’.