Consultants' hootenanny - Leeds Town Hall
Doctors gather in large numbers rarely and only for serious reasons political,
educational, or funereal. Our purely social occasions tend to be
segregated by specialty or age, or to invoke a sense of duty. Most of
us would be wryly amused at the thought of colleagues massing simply
to have a good time.
Imagine my feelings, then, at being appointed, in my absence, social convener
for the senior staff committee and asked to organise a morale
boosting event for the consultants of our recently merged mega-trust.
For years the driving force in each constituent hospital had been
antipathy towards the others. Now we no longer squabbled. None of us
knew enough colleagues to quarrel with.
The idea of a hootenanny emerged from discussion with my son, a socially
skilled twenty-something. The committee greeted the idea with acclaim
and suggested hiring Leeds Town Hall, scene of hospital tea dances in
more spacious days. The consultant body responded enthusiastically to
a mailshot. Only later did they admit that nobody knew what a
hootenanny was.
Officially it is "a party with folk singing and sometimes dancing, esp
an informal concert with folk music (N Am colloq)." Recently
it was the title of a Jools Holland television show with several
bands and an audience in one big studio. Surely a trust with more
than 400 consultants could produce half a dozen musical groups.
Most medical school applicants can play an instrument. Almost all give up on
acceptance, but a few maintain their skills into mid-life. These are
wonderful people. Not only are they willing to stand up and be
counted, but also they can persuade non-medical fellow musicians to
turn up in return for a free supper.
The evening was magic. It started with an orthopaedic bagpiper on the steps
and a professorial Dixieland band onstage. Female vocalists
accompanied dinner with electric jazz (This is US)
and later a long haired Blues Brother played sax as he shuffled among
the dancers. Volunteers in the gallery shone spotlights on the Soul
Surgeons, swaying in a riot of colour. As midnight approached, an
anaesthetist stood on a table and pumped out lead guitar. Man, the
place was jumping.
Afterwards the committee agreed that our morale had indeed been boosted.
Certainly, with a rock band at full volume nobody can hear you whinge.
James Owen Drife,
professor of obstetrics and gynaecology.
Leeds
