Tonight I cleaned out my manbag. No, that is not a euphemism for sexual intercourse. I just figured that I looked like a bit of dill walking down the street towards work holding my stethoscope in one hand and balancing a sandwich, an apple, and a carrot in the other. Well, to tell the truth, I had been thinking that for several months now, but I finally got around to cleaning out my manbag because my Smaller Half strongly advised* me to do it.
Which is nice, because as of tomorrow I will be able to put my stethoscope, sandwich, apple and carrot into my bag before I leave the house and my apple won't roll off the front seat of my car and onto the floor either, which can only be a good thing health-wise. But, as I've already mentioned, first I had to clean it out.
My manbag management protocol is pretty much the same as the way my brain works. I just jam into the top whatever seems useful or surprising that I've come across, and slowly things work their way down into the darkness below where they are forgotten or else take on a strange life of their own.
I found stuff in the bottom of my manbag going back to February 2013, which sounds bad but there is stuff in the bottom of my brain going back to the mid-70's. Here's a highlist list:
- 8 pens
- 3 torches
- 1 tourniquet
- 1 butterfly needle
- 3 paperclips
- a document telling me that I officially don't have tuberculosis
- almost 50 pages of patient lists, notes and discharge summaries
- identification badges and access cards from 3 different hospitals, none of which I actually work at anymore
- notes and summaries I had scribbled about such diverse topics as sudden cardiac death, management of diabetic ketoacidosis, differences between atypical antipsychotic medications, and "cultural safety toolboxes"
- about a dozen phone bills, electricity bills, reminder notices, final notices, and termination notices
- 20 or so payslips, unopened
- "Where Late The Sweet Birds Sang", by Kate Wilhelm - winner of the 1977 Hugo Award
- A nice stripy blue wool scarf
- an empty shopping bag
- several used-looking tissues (shudder)
- a partridge in a pear tree.
About a third of it I kept, about a third of it needs to be shredded as its mere existence grossly breaches just about every confidentiality requirement I can imagine, and the other third I just ate with a nice chianti.
So tomorrow I will be able to transport my lunch in a snug, marginally hygienic bag. It's exciting. And I will start to fill it up all over again.