In any other surroundings it would have been an unremarkable relic, a piece of furniture rendered invisible by age in a busy room: black leather with a worn sheen, creased and wrinkled, its heavy frame and bulbous wooden limbs layered with varnish the colour of betadine.  A whisper of tobacco smoke hung in the air around it.

But in this room its aura was tangible, its presence unsettling: a silent, domineering third-party which commanded our attention.

We’d come here to learn the Art of Medicine and of Surgery, each having embarked upon our own personal Odyssey to reach (at last!) the hallowed confines of The Royal Infirmary and The Surgical Wards in particular. We’d navigated the stormy Preclinical years, spirits beaten into submission by frequent reminders that obsequiousness and deference were the keys to success (or at least progression). But now we were here, in The Doctors’ Room, a gaggle of medical students in the gleaming white coats whose shape we’d yet to fill, about to embark on The Clinical Years, little knowing that this was only the beginning of an even more harrowing series of labours which would test us to our limits and challenge not only our minds but our self-esteem , our resolve , our very sense of being.
Oh the joyful stepping out into the bright light of that spring morning, passing under the archway made from the maws of ancient whales, a gateway to the parades of gnarly trees which stretched like spokes across a green pasture filled with the sights and sounds of city dwellers busy at their leisure!
Oh how naively (blissfully!)  unaware we were of the agonies and humiliations to come as we set forth with hearts full of the excitement that new adventure brings; the thrill of privileged access to the teachings of revered masters within the institution whose turreted towers and crow-stepped gables rose further out of the froth of pink blossom with our every stride!

Then stepping up a sweeping stone staircase, the ornate grey facade looming cathedral-like above us, and through wooden doors which opened onto harlequin-floored corridors on whose blood red walls hung dark portraits of stern dignitaries in gilded frames.
And, finally, to emerge onto wards bathed in bright light which flooded in through the glacial panes of tall windows before being shepherded into The Doctors’ Room by a starched Sister to shuffle around awkwardly, filling time and the space with empty adrenaline-fuelled chatter.
Waiting.
Waiting.
And then a sudden, collective awareness of the staccato clip of leather sole on formica: a fast and purposeful approach.
A sudden halt.
And the explosive opening of the door and with it a sudden silence, no movement save for the thump of racing hearts and the slow bump of dust motes dancing in the glaring light which flooded the room, illuminating the stage on which hierarchies were established, self-esteem was slain, and dominance was asserted.

Wide-eyed, the collective gaze was drawn to the figure whose presence filled the doorway: suddenly a knot of fury furled the brow, the nostrils flared, the jaw clenched.  Then the low snarl and the sense of a gathering storm.
All now turning slowly to follow the gaze of two dark eyes focussed on the chair.

A sudden dawning of realisation and with it the panicked scuffle of two feet and a choked apology from a shrinking figure, almost prostrate, their white coat flapping like wings, scrambling as though shot, the black leather creaking in their wake.
Day one.
Victim one.
Politics Of The Profession 101: Only One Derriere Shall Be Entitled To Occupy The Lister Chair. (Or was it one entitled derriere..?)

In turn we’d all Take One For The Team (stethoscope tubing too long; a tie slightly askew; the unacceptable vowel sounds).
In time we came to regard these trials as being formative exercises from which resilience developed rather than power plays which at first ground us down under monstrous egos.
The unknown unknowns of The Unknowing.