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BMJ 2005;330:263 (29 January), doi:10.1136/bmj.330.7485.263-a
| The first 150 words of the full text of this article appear below. |
A long time ago, I sailed three or four of the seven seas in good company. Motives were mixed. I was a reservist and discontent with the NHS, the Royal Navy needed medical officers, and I needed time to write a novel. So I rang up a senior naval figure, the appointer, and asked for a ship going somewhere warm and coming back in time for the Edinburgh Festival.
He rang back minutes later, asking when the Edinburgh Festival started. I knew he had problemseven his Irishmen were leavingand explained: usually towards the end of August. He seemed pleased: "I've got just the ship for you... Heading for Hong Kong... You'll love it."
I did. I loved that ship, from stem to stern. And the people were even better. I set to and wrote a novel.
In mysterious ways the navy helped. A stores assistant brought me reams of paper
Colin Douglas, doctor and novelist
Edinburgh