Dysorientation

For the week before D-day - when I'll be expected to actually do real doctory-type stuff - I am being subjected to a brutal program of "orientation".  It's bewildering.

The general gist of it seems to be:

1. A senior doctor comes in and tells us that we can do it, not to be scared, and to call them for help if we get worried about a patient.
2. A junior doctor comes in and tells us war stories about the past year and all the freak-out moments they've had and how you get shouted at if you call a senior doctor.
3. A cyborg administrator comes in and tells us that even if you are on the roster to eat the bits of capsicum out of someone's poo that you'll get paid a 15% penalty rate only after the fourth piece and it's a Sunday in Aries rising and your supervisor authorizes said payment in their own cerebrospinal fluid.
4. Some of the interns start backchatting the hand-hygiene apparatchiks with an argument that would seem to suggest that because self-defence is okay that recreational murder should be permissable too.
5. Insurance salesmen come in and give us lunches that look like they were catered by 15 year old boys.
6. And then it starts all over again.

I get the impression that in the far-distant Neolithic era, the orientation program involved mostly useful stuff like being told how to use your pager and where to park your car.  Then the lawyers got involved because if they could show that at some stage we were warned not to kill people, that when someone unfortunately died they could point the finger and scream "We told you not to let that happen!".  Then the new interns freaked out and complained that they weren't supported enough so they brought in the senior doctor to play nicey-nicey.  Then the interns found that they were being shouted at because they were labouring under the mistaken belief that senior doctors want to be their friends, so they brought in the junior doctors to tell horror stories.

I don't know why she swallowed a fly.  Perhaps she'll die.