Sogger’s Blog

There is an art exhibition in Lyon at the moment. It shows graphic anatomical details of corpses, often depicted in everyday poses like riding a bicycle. If there is one thing you can say about it, it’s that opinion, like the corpses, is divided: everybody who has heard of it has something to say about its artistic and educational value. Personally, I will be soon be going to visit, possibly with the kids (whether to take children along is another of the raging debates).

When I do go, it won’t be the first time I have seen such an “exhibition”. In fact, a few years ago, I was treated to a private showing of a similar exhibition…In a previous professional incarnation, I did a PhD at Manchester University (where I met Kenny). My area of study was computer vision - “teaching” computers to make sense of objects in images, in this case, recognising cartilage in MRI images of people’s knees. To do this involved putting people in scanners to get the images. However, at one point, we decided it would be interesting to take some pictures of knees from immobile subjects: post mortem in fact. No need to dig up any fresh corpses in this case, as we were working in the Medical School: corpses were everywhere (and I’m not talking about the lecturers). In fact, corpses were not necessary; all that we needed were a few amputated knees. “Just go up to the 4th floor and ask for Doctor Moriarty. He’ll see you right”. Actually, thinking back, Moriarty may not have been his name.

So I took the lift up to the 4th floor, and arrived at the ominously-but-unofficially-named, “Anatomy Room”. I pushed at the door, expecting it to be locked (it was around lunchtime), but it swung back (sorry to say, without a creak or any background music in a minor chord) and I stepped in. The room was large, windowless and brightly lit with fluorescent lighting. It was also devoid of living creatures (the experimental rats were on the 5th floor). However, if there were no living bodies, their numbers were compensated for by the multitude of corpses, each of them naked, with an orange pallor, and laid out on flat metal tables. There were approximately 30 tables, each with a body, laid out in a regular grid. They were, for the most-part, old corpses, the males, in particular, overweight. I guess they must have “donated their bodies to medical science” in their wills.

Doctor Moriarty was there, but his office was at the back of the room, behind the sea of bodies and their shrivelled members. This meant of course that I had to pick my way between them to get there. What a sight - one that is undoubtedly banal for people confronted with death on a daily basis (librarians for example), but not for me! Each of them had undergone some kind of invasive examination. The most graphic was a fat man whose throat had been cut open, the skin peeled back and pinned to a plastic tray (not unlike a Tupperware chopping board) on each side of his neck. The throat, I now know, is an incredibly complex thing. The multitude of bits and pieces in full view was stunning, but my stomach didn’t allow me to tarry.

Doctor Moriarty was an extremely friendly person, and was happy to help. In fact, he had a ready supply of post-mortem knees to hand (sic.). “Step this way” (sic.) he said, leading me to a ceiling-to-floor cupboard. He swung back the large, metal double-doors (sadly, still with no ominous music) to reveal the contents. This time however, there was a horror-movie moment, as an amputated hand fell to the floor. He placed it back in the cupboard (with, I thought, a lack of respect for the dead), and reached for what I was looking for - a large plastic bag, full of knees. There must have been a dozen or so in there, and he was happy to sign them over to me. Thinking back, I could have done anything with the knees - no end of practical jokes of dubious taste.

However, the sad thing is that they were of no use whatsoever. It seems that you can only get any meaningful measurements from in-vivo subjects - once they are dead, the fluid drains and the fluid is what keeps the cartilage inflated with its shock-absorption qualities. I confirmed this later when, in probably the lowest moment in the 3-year study, I went to an abattoir in Oldham on a rainy day to collect a cow’s knee (that we amusingly named Daisy in the official records). I will leave the details of what I saw therein to another post, but I can tell you that the cow did not willingly “donate its body to medical science”.

The French don’t seem to be as avid as the British when it comes to reading newspapers (in my, albeit, limited experience). One of the things I genuinely miss about the UK is receiving the Sunday newspaper; the thud as it drops onto the carpet and reading it over a Sunday breakfast cup of tea. To fill this gap, I have the Guardian Weekly delivered every Saturday. It’s a mish-mash of articles from the Guardian, The Washington Post, Le Monde and the Observer and it generally keeps me happy for a few hours. When I say “happy”, it’s rarely in a smile-as-you-read happiness. In fact, reading it is often quite a depressing experience, as it condenses a week of human suffering, war, current and pending ecological disasters and general doom and gloom into 40 pages.

So imagine my pleasure when this week I actually did have a smile-as-you-read moment. It happened as I was reading the “This week in Britain” section, which generally celebrates the dottiness of its subjects.

Posh People at Harrods

The article in question was about a pointless, only-in-the-UK competition, “Britain’s Best High Street”. It is not entirely clear what are the criteria for winning the competition, but it seems that this year’s finalists are Kensington High Street (home to Harrods etc), Portobello Road (wacky, hippy-type market if I remember well) and, err, Skipton High Street.

You need to know that we lived in Skipton for 3 years before leaving to come to France so I can say with confidence that I’m not sure what it is that qualifies Skipton for this prize. Could it be the wall-to-wall charity shops (I remember local uproar a few years ago when a bus company advertised day trips to Skipton from Liverpool, describing it as “the charity shop capital of the UK”)? All the usual national branches of Next, Boots etc. - maybe it’s because they are housed in relatively old buildings?

Hippies at Portobello Road Market

In fact, it seems that the street market and a pie shop are the clinching factors. The market does seem to have some attraction - even now, my parents will drive 70 miles for a day out just to walk down the high street, invariably returning with a roll of kitchen foil while they are there (”everything £1″).

Skipton Market

However, being objective, Skipton High Street is rather impressive, with its pristine castle and church at the top end, and the bottom bending round towards the canal. I wish them luck and hope that the Guardian Weekly sees fit to deliver the result to my door in France.

After 6 years in France, I feel that I am fairly well assimilated into the culture, and am extremely happy to be here. However, sometimes something happens that makes you realise that, in fact, you are a foreigner in a foreign land. Such an event is happening right now outside…

As I drove through town this morning, I pulled into the traffic at the same moment as a beat-up, bright yellow Renault van from at most 1960 pulled in behind me. I had heard loudspeakers from a distance, and now they started again from behind me; from, in fact, the said yellow van. What he was blaring out was that the circus was in town! Excitement from the kids in the back of the car, “Can we go? Please, please, go on dad”.

I’ve never been to a circus, but have been tempted in the past by such things as Cirque du Soleil. However, as we turned the corner and the van blared its way onward, we got to see into a second bright yellow lorry following behind. The back of this lorry had beened turned into a cage. In the cage, looking as forlorn as any decrepit animal that I have ever seen in any run-down zoo, was a lion. This lion was obviously past caring. It didn’t move and stared without seeing at the passers-by, unable to escape the sound of the loudspeakers proclaiming the wonders of the African savannah, right there in front of your eyes.

I am no animal rights activist (I did have a vegetarian phase, brought on mostly by economic realities, fear of mad cow disease and a crush on a vegetarian girl at university), but I was appalled at the sight. I am certain that such a scene would not be tolerated in Britain (and surely by most other countries). It was truly something that I thought (and hoped) belonged to another age. This is obviously tolerated in France, as I can still hear the guy blaring, and the town hall has let them take over the town centre for the event. How can they let this happen? Shame on you France! I am intrigued to know whether it is my anglo-saxon roots that have made me feel this way or if I am just a big old prude. I will run a survey at work next week and let you know the results.

As I am sat here writing, I am fighting the unachievable urge to go out and let the lion out in the hope that it would jump out and turn on the guy. However, I am sure the drugs mean that it has no energy and it would look at me wondering what the hell I was doing before swiping me with its paw with its claws removed. Being a coward, instead, I take out my animosity on the keyboard. Thank you blog.