Always up for a knees-up, at the weekend I was down in Monaghan for a friend’s wedding. I worked with her in Craigavon when I was starting out as a baby doctor (whereas now I’m a firmly-mature toddler doctor). The girl who was getting married is just the loveliest person, and I was down with a really nice group of people. I was pretty lucky if I’m honest to end up with the cohort of F1s that I did, and was pretty touched to be invited along.
I bloody love weddings; seeing the bride and groom at the front of the chapel/temple/secular gathering area grinning at each other and nervously chatting always brings a smile to my face. Hers was no exception, and her family were all a bit adorable. “Good bears” as she’d describe them.
The other reasons I love weddings are that they’re a giant steed good feed and an excellent opportunity to jig your foot on the dance floor. I got massively into the boogieing as I so often do, and earned the title of “most nimble guest” at the wedding. Obviously I would have preferred most handsome, but you take what you can.
In other news I’ve been working in a Belfast hospital since the start of February, under the General Medicine umbrella. It’s been quite a nice job; the staff, culture and atmosphere are all really friendly and it’s definitely been educationally useful. But I actually just finished there last week, and for the next 6-8 weeks I’ve rejoined the ranks of the unemployed.
The reason for this is that I’ve arranged a placement in a cancer research lab, where I’ll hopefully be getting some exposure and insight into clinical research, with the hope of informing future decisions on how much of a role I would like research to take in my career.
Like with starting any new job, I’m a bit nervous about starting in general, and about not knowing anything at first- as it’s a completely different skill-set from what I’ve been developing these past six years. But with a bit of time/graft/blind luck (delete as appropriate) I’ll hopefully get the hang of it.
Now, it’s time for me to confess something. To get a bit of a weight off my chest. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I feel it’s important to own up to these things.
I… I have a personal trainer.
That’s right, I’m one of Those People. Those middle-class eejits. Next week I’m sure I’ll be talking about the decline in quality of quinoa and complaining that my latte cup isn’t locally-sourced.
It started a month or two ago- I was in the gym flailing around aimlessly as I often do, when a staff member came up to me and asked if I’d be interested in a free personal training session. The first key thing he said was “free”. The second key thing was when he told me his name was Ivan. I couldn’t pass that up- I thought it’d be too funny to say no to a session with Ivan the Terrible.
I went fully expecting to hate it; and find the whole thing both awkward and useless, his guidance of “drink protein shakes and women will love you” to fall on some very deaf (and very gay) ears. But the crafty beggar sussed me out- he worked out that I’m fundamentally lazy, and explicitly said there was a limit to how much I’d be willing to be pushed. He told me that he wouldn’t go overboard cause he knew I wasn’t interested in becoming ridiculously-built. He didn’t mention attracting women once. He scoffed at the idea of protein shakes and said I should just eat real food. And to top it all off he had good chat.
He got me. Read me like a book and now I’m paying extra money to the gym. I’m Chandler from Friends and there’s no way out. Excuse me while I go look for a fair-trade yoga mat.