I’ve fallen shorts of expectation

Copperfield on the trials and tribulations of consulting in shorts during the recent heatwave

As some of you may have noticed, it’s been rather warm lately. The blogger’s curse means that by the time you read this, we’ll all be wrapped up in scarves and parkas again. But the fact is that I practise in one of those state of the art health centres. State of the art, that is, for the early 70s. 1870s. Hence: inefficient heating + no air-con = we’re hypothermic in winter and heat stroked in summer.

And so it was that, the other day, I faced a full day-duty stint with temperatures touching 30 degrees in my room. It was this that made me do it. I crossed a line. But I couldn’t possibly have anticipated the consequences.

So yes, for the first time in 37 years, I consulted wearing shorts. I know, but it was either that, or rip my sweat-laden trousers off mid-surgery.

The reaction of the staff was bad enough. A couple asked me for ID as they genuinely didn’t recognise me. And another commented that, and I quote: ‘I didn’t even know you had legs, Doctor Copperfield.’

But this was nothing compared to the patients. All had a reaction, which they showed, ranging from frank amusement, through shock, to horror; and a view, which they expressed, varying from grudging acceptance, through disappointment, to frank revulsion. This calibration, and the ensuing justification/protests etc. took up a lot of time. A shorts consultation is a long consultation.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. I spent the first 20 years of my career turning up with jacket, tie and Gladstone bag, which was my way of cultivating a veneer of professionalism to compensate for incompetence. When I eventually ditched the tie, my old faithfuls reacted like I’d just joined a terrorist organisation.

So this was a step too far. I ended up spending most of each consultation desperately trying to hide my legs under the desk: their sudden revelation if I had to examine the patient was simply too much for some, with a pathos reminiscent of a David Brent moment.

Gratifyingly, my colleagues were dressed casually, too. The post-surgery coffee session (iced) was like a scene from The White Lotus. We didn’t look very professional and we didn’t feel very professional. It’s hard to focus on rectal bleeding or suicidal ideation when your clothes are screaming at you that you should be sipping piña coladas by the pool.

My final patient in my furnace of a consulting room was a 90-year-old gent who I’ve known forever. And he consulted, as he always does, impeccably turned out in smart trousers, crisp shirt, tightly knotted tie and tweed jacket. As he clocked my attire, he kindly tried to disguise his expression. But I worked it out. It said: ‘First the tie, now this.’

I was emblematic of the general decline of the NHS that he cherished, and, for a second he and I felt very sad. Still, it was easy to explain his dizziness.

Dr Tony Copperfield is a GP in Essex