Second opinion

LAST Friday, at midday precisely, I received a telephone call in my office. `Hello, this is Human Resources here.'

I can't say I care much for being a Human Resource: it always sounds as if I might be bought up by Rio Tinto Zinc, or some other mining company. I can't help being reminded of the children's encyclopaedia I used to browse through when I was young which had a chemical breakdown of the human body, arranged in neat little piles of the various ele- ments of which we are composed. If I remember rightly, there was enough phosphorus in the human body for a box of matches — or was it a single match? Either way, our Hospital Trust's finan- cial situation is dire, bordering on bankruptcy: perhaps I am needed to light the Chief Executive's cigar.

On the other hand, perhaps Human Resources means livers, kidneys and other transplantable organs with which the human body is so richly endowed. I gather the going price in some countries is considerable.

`Hello,' I said.

`Hello,' said a voice, obviously a Tracy of some description. 'Can you be at Trust Headquarters at 2.30 this after- noon? There's a very important letter for you which it is your responsibility to dis- tribute to your staff.'

`An important letter? What's it about?'

`I can't tell you, I don't know, it's embargoed until 2.30 this afternoon.'

`Have I understood you correctly?' I asked. 'You propose that I should come to headquarters, on the other side of the city, in the middle of heavy traffic, to col- lect a letter, copies of which I must give to my staff?'

`Yes, it's very important.'

`And it's my responsibility to act as a postman?'

`It's your responsibility to distribute the letter to your staff, yes.'

`What about my out-patient clinic?' I asked.

`Your clinic?'

`Yes, my clinic, the one I've been doing every Friday afternoon for the last seven years. You want me to cancel it at an hour's notice in order to collect a letter?'

`I'm only giving you the message.' `What do you think of the message?' `What do I think of it?'

`Yes, is it clever or stupid?'

`I don't know.'

`Why can't you fax me the letter?'

`It's confidential.'

`Well, I'm not coming to collect it. I wouldn't collect it even if I could, but I can't.'

I suppose I need hardly add that a week later I still have not received this vital letter which it is my responsibility to distribute to my numberless staff. The birds are still singing and the leaves on the trees have come out, so it couldn't have been that important after all.

But what could it have been about, I wonder? There are so many unsolved mysteries in the world. For example, prostitutes have taken to standing on the street corner of the road in which I live. They are white girls, and I am told by my vigilant neighbour that their customers are all Indians. Their pimps, of course, are black. What is the politically correct response to this situation? Answers, please, to Dr T. Dalrymple, c/o The Spectator.

Theodore Dalrymple