I lived in Newcastle Upon Tyne for many months, with a friend who had a permanent job in a big vet hospital there. It was cold, cold and cold, and grey, and an icy wind would sneak right through to the marrow of your bones in winter. The people were warm and wonderful, so much more so than the closed faces and scurrying hoards of London town.
I had a long term locum in a run down vet hospital owned by a hopelessly alcoholic Australian lady, and being run by two Irish vets. She didn\’t work any more (apparently she\’d go through a whole bottle of whisky just during the morning consults, and then start on the second…). There was a constant pack of dogs running around the clinic- at least 4-5 at any given time, all rescue dogs. We wouldn\’t put anything to sleep, you see, unless it needed it. It did mean that it was quite the usual thing to find dog poohs all over the place, on the floor, so you had to watch your step rather carefully!
It was the cheapest vet in town, and it had to be, because the people in this suburb were dirt poor. Worn clothes, tired faces, and desperation laced the waiting room. But they loved their pets deeply, and we did everything we could to make them well. It was a happy place to work, too, all the nurses and the vets got along like a house on fire, much laughter, many cups of tea.
The irish fellows would take me across the road to the pub for lunch, and order me a pint of Guinness. Then they would lift up their glass twice, or maybe three times if I was lucky, and vanish them. Then it would be \”Whatr\’ye doin\’ man – get another into ye!\” Afternoon consults could be a bit of a blur after three or four pints in quick succession!
The owner of the practice did come in one day. She was drunk as ten men when she arrived, was drinking with alarming rapidity, and after half an hour dissolved into a flood of tears and incoherent rambling, sitting in the corner where we had cups of tea. Eventually she staggered off, poor lost soul that she was.
The Geordies (as the folk up there call themselves – to call any one of them an englishman would be to invite a fight!) have a very strong accent. I could deal with it most days, but one time a man with a severe speech impediment came in with his little dog. I could not understand a single word! So I pretended to understand, asked questions, and worked what was going on, prescribed some medicine, and opened the door for him. He said something, and I said \”Yes\”. He said it again, and I said \”Yes.\” (with a smile, this time.) He said it a third time, obviously starting to get upset, and I realised that he was asking me to hold his dog while he put his jacket on. I was so embarrassed!