‘Who even needs ice-packs?’ the school librarian muttered to
me as we tried to squeeze a tub of Ben & Jerry’s along with some ice cubes
for our G&Ts into an already stuffed freezer compartment. Apparently
children do. About every ten minutes if my experience this year is anything to
go by.
When I was a child, an accidental whack on the head or a
scraped knee was rubbed or kissed better. If it was very serious it might have
merited a plaster. Protocol now dictates that any bump on the head must be iced
regularly, no matter how insignificant it might seem. The result is that the
children see ice packs as a chilly cure-all for any ailment. I was once asked
for an ice pack by a little girl who had accidentally had her hair pulled at
break time, whilst others have wanted plasters to go on bruises, or
temperatures to be taken when they just feel a bit tired. The placebo effect is
alive and well in the British boarding school system. As a doctor’s daughter I
had to be dead on the doormat to even have a chance of a day off school, always
being fed the lie that, if I had a go until lunchtime, ‘Mummy will come and
pick you up if you still aren’t feeling well.’ At lunchtime, the response would
come that it was now only a few hours until home time, so I could probably
manage a bit longer. As such, I have limited patience for all this Drama
Queenery regarding medical issues, even though the aforementioned protocol
insists that I adhere to policy.
For the children, the Holy Grail of medical treatment is a
trip to A&E. To those of such young years this is a mystical place which
only features in the equation when even the adults think the malady might be
serious. A few weeks ago, during the unseasonal spring gales that April brought
with it this year, an incident with a falling cricket sightscreen merited an
A&E dash for one of the little girls. As the adult who stayed behind with
the remaining children, I was met with a barrage of questions from the
youngsters.
‘What does the A stand for?’
‘Accident.’
‘What does the E stand for?’
‘Emergency.’
‘Do you get your first visit free?’
‘No, Sweetie, thanks to the Labour government and the
Beveridge report, you get every visit
free!’
Despite the sightscreen’s best efforts, the injury turned out
not to be serious or lasting yet the fascination with A&E remained tangible
amongst the children for the next few days. Every bump, graze and snotty nose
was presented to me with the hopeful question, ‘Do you think I need to go to
A&E?’ Eventually the furore died down and both the children and I forgot
about it until, a week later, one of the little girl looked at me and asked,
‘Matron do you need to go to AA?’
‘Oh help,’ thought I, ‘she’s found where I hide the gin.’
And then it dawned on me that she’d muddled her acronyms.
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