The Highway Code

I have been spending most weekends lately reading The Highway Code; these are the rules of the road here in the UK. I am doing this in preparation my taking the driving license test. Like in the US, there is a written test and a driving test. I received my provisional license a few weeks ago, which is the UK version of the Learner’s Permit. I didn’t know that the UK license had two parts: a paper part and a picture card part. I guess the picture card part is a recent innovation; apparently the paper is the important bit.

So I was wondering how people kept this thing from disintegrating. It is just a regular slice of paper so if I were to carry it around everyday, I am sure it would be in pieces in just a few months. So I asked some motorists at work. It turns out that you don’t carry it around at all; you just leave it home. So I thought that I just had to carry the card around. Turns out that I don’t have to carry that around either. That card can stay at home to. I must have had a perplexed look on my face because my motorist friend immediately explained that if you are in an accident: you have 7 days to produce your driving license at a police station. In fact, my friend told me he was pulled over just the other day. The entire exchange went something like this:

Policeman: What kind of license do you have?

Motorist: A full English one, as far as I know.

Policeman: Alright, off you go then.

The UK driving license is apparently a lot like the UK constitution: it is more of a concept, really. Yeah, that’s right: this constitutional monarchy has what is known as an uncodified (unwritten) constitution. The constitution is out there somewhere, hidden in the midst of random combinations of case law, statutes, and treaties. It will be hard to relate to this if you're not living here, but this actually explains so much of how London works... it’s uncodified!

Photo Credits:

Automobile Association (Certificate Lot)

Metropolitan Police Smart Car (CarPictures1.com)

London from Above (The Big Picture, Jason Hawkes)

Occupational Therapy in London

Before I moved to London, I thought I spoke English. But now that I live here, I realise that what I speak is American English. The two languages are so similar that it is easy to overlook the differences. It’s the same relationship between Occupational Therapy in the UK and Occupational Therapy in the US: they are so similar that it is easy to overlook the differences. Many of the differences are not discoverable until you get into the nitty gritty details. But one difference was almost immediately noticeable. Three years ago, I took a post at the Royal Hospital for Neuro-disability and the very first thing I had to do before starting employment, even before my first day, was to pick up my uniform. That’s right, my uniform. You can identify most occupational therapists and their assistants in any London hospital by what they are wearing. Witness the duo at the top of the page modelling the Royal Bolton version... I love how that no two London train platforms are the same height but just about every hospital occupational therapist in London is wearing the same uniform. It probably makes no sense to anyone that this sentence sums up my impression of London as much as any sentence can. I am not even sure I understand it.

My reaction against the uniform was immediate and visceral. It isn't that my hospital has turned over every stone to find the poorest quality material available. It isn’t that the waist seems to be designed with a beer belly in mind. I guess I am just jealous that I don't have a beer belly given my enthusiasm for stouts, porters, and ales. It isn’t the lack of a long sleeve option. Most of you probably know that I never wear short sleeves in temperatures less than 25C (80F). It isn’t even the ‘bottle green’. I don't know where this colour came from, but I wish it would go back. It does not belong on a bottle, and it certainly does not belong on trousers. (The idea of this colour is on par with the idea of writing about fingernail recycling... Who would DO such a thing!) It wasn’t any of those things causing my reaction. It was this idea that the uniform was somehow antithetical to everything I thought about the therapeutic relationship. But as I try to articulate this feeling into actual sentences for this blog, I am coming up short. Sure, the uniform causes needless separation between my clients and me, but does it really undermine my humanity so much that I cannot establish a therapeutic relationship based on our common humanity? Certainly not! I think I hate the uniform because it makes a sort of hierarchical distinction that just isn't necessary. But that is likely my own cultural bias. I wonder if most native Londoners see it that way. I happen to see many things in London as needlessly hierarchical. But that will have to wait for a future rant.

The uniform has some positives, however. The biggest one for me was that it signalled my arrival into occupational therapy in London. I had finally figured out how to get hired into the field. It took a while to figure out where to look and how to present myself. The differences are subtle but enough to prevent you getting the interview or the job. That is why I am smiling in the picture: I am finally ‘in’. I also love the idea of not having to buy clothes for work and wearing out the hospital’s clothes instead of my own. And since the hospital launders them for free, it is a sweet deal.

Photo Credits:

Bolton Hospitals

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