David Beresford Another Country Gazing at my face in the mirror I wonder whether I have not stumbled across one of the great discoveries of our times: the co- existence of Ron and Dave, which is to say me and me. The proposition is founded in a fit of indignation with she who probably qualifies or is likely to do so shortly as the worldOs most famous neuroscientist, Susan Greenfield. The Oxford professor of pharmacology apparently the first woman to head the Royal Institution (shades of Empire, howOs that for a name with class!) is reckoned to be the sexiest thing ever to be discovered in a laboratory. The highlights of her public career range from an appearance in the pages of Hello! magazine to the recent launch by the BBC of her own television series, Brain Story. Known to chums as OSpring GreensO, for her fun-loving character, a recent newspaper profile in The Observer notes her mini- skirt, Armani jacket, pink Guerlain lipstick and taste for nettle tea. Other manifestations of her success include a royal gong (commander of the British empire), a country house, an Oxford flat, a London apartment and her own drugs company. In short, she is the sort of medical researcher to make one feel privileged to donate oneOs body to science, albeit with a codicil specifying the mini-skirted scientist allowed to wield the saw and the drill.
Her area of speciality is progressive brain disease, including ParkinsonOs. Which is why I with a well-known case of the shakes was eagerly poring over her profile when I came across a statement attributed to her, that Othere is unlikely to be any advance in alleviating the suffering of ParkinsonOs, or AlzheimerOs patients for many yearsO. You do not know what hope is until the iron jaws of hopelessness crash shut behind you, as (I seem to remember) TS Elliot observed. And I was casting anxiously about for my never-before-used anti-panic pills and clutching my Guide to the Stoics when it struck me it was one of the most absurd statements I had come across from a scientist in his (sorry, her) field of expertise. Leaving aside the wealth of promising research breakthroughs that have emerged in recent years, the advances in Oalleviating sufferingO in ParkinsonOs since the war have been considerable. Unless GreenfieldOs research has discovered some yet-to-be disclosed firewall blocking any further advances there is no reason to believe the trend will not continue, much less that progress has been mysteriously halted.
OScience and Susan Greenfield have come a long way,O reflected the profile at one point. OAnd a long way to go,O I muttered to myself, firing off an indignant e-mail to the author of the piece, only to receive a reply so courteous as to immediately puncture my indignation and persuade me finally to will my second-hand brain to the Royal Institution, whatever that may be. The shortcomings of experts, particularly in the field of medical science, brought to mind the operation suffered by the 17th- century diarist, Samuel Pepys, when he had a kidney stone cut out as a young man. The ordeal was so great and the odds against him so long that when he survived he abandoned the annual celebration of his birthday in favour of a Oday of the stoneO when he gave thanks to his God. Three hundred, or so, years later and my Cosmic Jester allowed the joke behind the inscrutable workings of the Almighty to be discovered, when a doctor turned forensic historian found the household accounts of the surgeon. A comparison of dates with the diary showed that, although probably unwashed, the knife used was new, saving Pepys from the death by infection suffered by those who followed him to the operating table.
Recollection of the anecdote prompted parallels between the Black Death famously witnessed by Pepys and our present-day plague, Aids. Intrigued, I reread an account of the horrors to be seen in London in 1664 and the confused and savage steps taken by the public authorities to combat it. Basically, if one member of a household fell ill the rest were locked up to die in screaming agony with him or her. Fumigation seemed to help, but nobody made the association with the effect it had in driving out the black rats. If only someone with a bit of common sense … Of course the great thing about the discovery of the failings of scientists is the space it opens up to us ignorant lay- people (or presidents) to meddle in their areas of speciality. All of which leads up to the announcement that I have been engaged in my own brain research recently. I have written in past nnnnabout the effect of anti-Parkinson drugs on me: bright, but near-paralysed half the day and mobile, but near-somnambulant the other half. Ellen takes it further, assuring me I have a different personality on and off the drugs. OYou are a different person!O The other day I was struck by an observation that beauty is not so much in the eye of the beholder as in the symmetry of the face of the subject. Something about evolution and the search for perfection. Heart thudding I shuffled off to the bathroom and there the mirror confirmed my deepest fears. IOm as ugly as sin! One half offers the emotionless gaze of a professional gunslinger, the other the vivacity of Dick Whittington in a Xmas panto. My mind raced: different personalities … different faces … the knife … the rats … common sense … different people … ORon?O I ventured, haphazardly.