The weird world of plastic surgery
Yesterday we drove to America's smallest state: Rhode Island.
We were planning to spend the afternoon in Newport, described by our guidebook as 'the 19th century playground of the colossally wealthy'.
Appropriately enough, it was also the location of the New England Plastic Surgery conference, at which B firstly had to deliver a 7-minute speech.
There was one conference room, and a lobby full of men in expensive suits (S stuck out in pink-and-white florals, accessorised with flip-flops and matching toddler).
While waiting for B's turn to speak, S began browsing the exhibition tables: stick-on silicon sheets for scar healing; inflatable pads with tubes, to stretch skin for transplanting; and 'loupes' - magnifying glasses that look like something a mass-murderer might wear.

Then S came across a table bountifully laden with the latest breast implants.
S had never seen one before, and was quite fascinated.
Was it all right to pick one up and see what it felt like....? Not sure.
At that moment, a man appeared from nowhere.
'Are you..... interested in breast implants?'
'Oh no. Aha ha ha ha. I'm just here because my husband's speaking.'
Sharp exit.
Later B emerged chatting with an Irish colleague and the implants were picked up, squidged and squashed about most irreverently, compared to types used in Europe, and dismissed.
All the American plastic surgeons in sharp suits went back into the conference room for a lecture on how plastic surgeons made the world a better place after Hurricane Katrina, to help them feel warm and fuzzy, before an entire afternoon on how to improve the profitability of their private practices.
Neither would occur at a British plastic surgery conference - the fact that you work for the NHS being widely considered sufficient service unto mankind, yet also, all that you should be doing, after the taxpayer paid for your training.
Which doesn't stop most plastic surgeons joining the UK society for private work - the delightfully named, BAAPS.
We were planning to spend the afternoon in Newport, described by our guidebook as 'the 19th century playground of the colossally wealthy'.
Appropriately enough, it was also the location of the New England Plastic Surgery conference, at which B firstly had to deliver a 7-minute speech.
There was one conference room, and a lobby full of men in expensive suits (S stuck out in pink-and-white florals, accessorised with flip-flops and matching toddler).
While waiting for B's turn to speak, S began browsing the exhibition tables: stick-on silicon sheets for scar healing; inflatable pads with tubes, to stretch skin for transplanting; and 'loupes' - magnifying glasses that look like something a mass-murderer might wear.
Then S came across a table bountifully laden with the latest breast implants. S had never seen one before, and was quite fascinated.
Was it all right to pick one up and see what it felt like....? Not sure.
At that moment, a man appeared from nowhere.
'Are you..... interested in breast implants?'
'Oh no. Aha ha ha ha. I'm just here because my husband's speaking.'
Sharp exit.
Later B emerged chatting with an Irish colleague and the implants were picked up, squidged and squashed about most irreverently, compared to types used in Europe, and dismissed.
All the American plastic surgeons in sharp suits went back into the conference room for a lecture on how plastic surgeons made the world a better place after Hurricane Katrina, to help them feel warm and fuzzy, before an entire afternoon on how to improve the profitability of their private practices.
Neither would occur at a British plastic surgery conference - the fact that you work for the NHS being widely considered sufficient service unto mankind, yet also, all that you should be doing, after the taxpayer paid for your training.
Which doesn't stop most plastic surgeons joining the UK society for private work - the delightfully named, BAAPS.


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