Back in the day when I was medical correspondent for London Radio Service (amongst other things), I used to peruse the British Medical Journal. Following the heavy papers about myalgic encephalopathy there were articles written by doctors in a lighter vein. One of the authors was in the navy reserve, and he told the story of being in a frigate in the Red Sea, sitting round, nothing much going on, until a native boat came alongside, with a man in it pointing frantically towards his mouth.
So they took him on board – the man spoke no English – and took him down to the sick bay. The doctor looked in his mouth.
“Well, I suppose he’s got a root abscess,” he said. “But what can I do? I’m not a dentist.”
The sick-berth attendant replied, “Not to worry, sir, I expect it’s all in the book.”
“What book?”
The sick-berth attendant went away and returned with a slim pamphlet headed “Royal Navy Reference Book 1357/2 Dentistry for Medical Officers.”
So the doctor sat down and started to read it from page 1. “Mm-hmm. Yes,” he said. “OK.” Then he went back to the patient, did what the book told him, and the man went away happy.
Afterwards the doctor’s reaction was, “Well, if that’s all there is to dentistry, what’s all the fuss? I rather wish I had kept the book.”
So whither experts? I suspect that the reason why so many books of instruction are so badly written is that the authors are worried we will all learn their skills and make them redundant.
