There's an art to a real confession, thinks Naomi Mehta, and healthcare workers aren't skilled at it. They just seem to be playing a game of, well, doctors and nurses
There is an art to a good confession: a truly worthwhile confession has essential ingredients that set it aside from being just silly. Isolated in its genuine shame, the deed should be recounted in darkly honest terms, with full ownership, no snivelling excuses, and accompanied by an intention, however weak, to prevent reoccurrence.
As this relates to doctors and nurses, my thoughts turned firmly to sex--more specifically, sex and sexual overtures with non-consenting patients. There could be any number of recently struck off gynaecologists or psychiatrists--one lives just up the road as it happens--out of work and ready to talk. With this in mind I sat with my fish and chip supper waiting for a TV show about such confessions of doctors and nurses to start. Voyeuristically tantalised, and just a little edgy, I needn't have worried unduly. After all, it was before the watershed, and the chances of a