Too old, too fat, too lazy and too rich

by reestheskin on 31/05/2019

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Quite a motto to live by, but David Hume saw things more clearly than the rest of us.

Hume’s ironic wit and humour make him a biographer’s dream. After his History of England proved to be a tremendous critical and popular success, his publisher entreated him for another volume, only to receive the memorable rebuff:

 

“I have four reasons for not writing: I am too old, too fat, too lazy and too rich.”

 

When at a last dinner before Hume’s death in 1776, Smith complained of the cruelty of the world in taking him from them, Hume said: “No, no. Here am I, who have written on all sorts of subjects calculated to excite hostility, moral, political, and religious, and yet I have no enemies; except, indeed, all the Whigs, all the Tories, and all the Christians.” There are many other such stories.

 

How Adam Smith would fix capitalism | Financial Times

“It appears to me, the doing what little one can to encrease [sic] the general stock of knowledge is as respectable an object of life as one can in any likelihood pursue.”

Darwin. Letter to his sisters from the Beagle. Quoted in the London Review of Books 23-May-2019, Rosemary Hill.

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The information society

by reestheskin on 27/05/2019

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This is a little old, but I snapped it as I was passing through a hospital. It speaks volumes about the state of learning and engagement in the NHS.

Late night thoughts #7

by reestheskin on 24/05/2019

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Late night thoughts on medical education #7: Carousels

In the previous post I laid out some of the basic structures of the ‘clinical years’ of undergraduate medical degrees. In this post I want to delve a little deeper and highlight how things have gone wrong. I do not imagine it was ever wonderful, but it is certainly possible to argue that things have got a lot worse. I think things are indeed bad.

When I was a medical student in Newcastle in 1976-1982 the structure of the first two clinical years (years 3 and 4) were similar, whereas the final year (year 5) was distinct. The final year was made up of several long attachments — say ten weeks medicine and 10 weeks surgery — and there were no lectures or any demands on your time except that you effectively worked as an unpaid houseman, attached to a firm of two or three consultants. The apprenticeship system could work well during these attachments. The reasons for this partly reflected the fact that all parties had something to gain. Many if not most students chose where they did their attachments (‘if you like fellwalking, choose Carlisle etc), and had an eye on these units as a place to do your house jobs the following year. The consultants also had skin in the game. Instead of relying on interviews, or just exam results, they and all their staff (junior docs, nurses etc) got a chance to see close up what an individual student was like, and they could use this as a basis for appointing their houseperson the following year. If a houseman was away, you acted up, and got paid a small amount for this. At any time if you didn’t turn up, all hell would break out. You were essential to the functioning of the unit. No doubt there was some variation between units and centres, but this is how it was for me. So, for at least half of final year, you were on trial, immersed in learning by doing / learning on the job / workplace learning etc. All the right buzzwords were in place.

Carousels

As I have said, years 3 and 4 were different from final year, but similar to each other. The mornings would be spent on the ward and the afternoons — apart from Wednesdays — were for lectures. I didn’t like lectures (or at least those sort of lectures) so I skipped them apart from making sure that I collected any handouts which were provided on the first day (see some comments from Henry Miller on lectures below [1]).

The mornings were ‘on the wards’. Four year 3 students might be attached to two 30 bedded wards (one female, one male), and for most of the longer attachments you would be given a patient to go and see, starting at 9:30, breaking for coffee at 10:30 and returning for an hour or more in which one or more of you had to present you findings before visiting the bedside and being taught how to examine the patient. The number of students was small, and there was nowhere to hide, if you didn’t know anything.

For the longer attachments (10 weeks for each of paediatrics, medicine and surgery) this clinical exposure could work well. But the shorter attachments especially in year 4 were a problem, chiefly because you were not there long enough to get to know anybody.

The design problem was of course that the lectures were completely out of synchrony with the clinical attachments. You might be doing surgery in the morning, but listening to lectures on cardiology in the afternoon. Given my lack of love for lectures, I used the afternoons to read about patients I had seen in the morning, and to cover the subject of the afternoon lectures, by reading books.

I don’t want to pretend that all was well. It wasn’t. You might turn up to find that nobody was available to teach you, in which case we would retreat to the nurses canteen to eat the most bacon-rich bacon sandwiches I have ever had the pleasure of meeting (the women in the canteen thought all these young people needed building up with motherly love and food 🙂 ).

The knowledge of what you were supposed to learn was, to say the least, ‘informal’; at worst, anarchic. Some staff were amazingly helpful, but others — how shall I say — not so.

Year 5 envy

In reality, everybody knew that years 3 and 4 were pale imitations of year 5. The students wanted to be in year 5, because year 5 students — or at last most year 5 students — were useful. The problem was that the numbers (students and patients) and the staffing were not available. It was something to get through, but with occasional moments of hope and pleasure. Like going through security at airports: the holiday might be good, but you pay a price.

Present day

The easiest way to summarise what happens now is to provide a snapshot of teaching in my own subject at Edinburgh.

Year 4 (called year 5 now, but the penultimate year of undergraduate medicine) students spend two weeks in dermatology. Each group is made up of 12-15 students. At the beginning of a block of rotations lasting say 18 weeks in total, the students will have 2.5 hours of lectures on dermatology. During the two week dermatology rotation, most teaching will take place in the mornings. On the first morning the students have an orientation session, have to work in groups to answer some questions based on videos they have had to watch along with bespoke reading matter, and then there is an interactive ‘seminar’ going through some of the preparatory work in the videos and text material.

For the rest of the attachment students will attend a daily ‘teaching clinic’, in which they are taught on ‘index’ patients who attend the dermatology outpatients. These patients are selected from those attending the clinic and, if they agree, they pass through to the ‘teaching clinic’. The ‘teacher’ will be a consultant or registrar, and this person is there to teach — not to provide clinical care during this session.

Students will also sit in one ‘normal’ outpatient clinic as a ‘fly on the wall’, and attend one surgical session. At the end of the attachment, there is a quiz in which students attempt to answer questions in small groups of two or three. They also get an opportunity to provide oral feedback as well as anonymous written feedback. Our students rate dermatology highly in comparison with most other disciplines, and our NHS staff are motivated and like teaching.

The problems

When I read through the above it all sounds sort of reasonable, except that…

Students will pass though lots of these individual attachments. Some are four weeks long but many are only 1 or 2 weeks in duration. It is demanding to organise such timetables, and stressful for both students and staff

  • each day a different staff member will teach the students
  • it is unlikely that staff will know the names of most of the students. Students will usually not remember the name of the staff member who taught them in a previous week
  • most teaching is delivered by non-university employed staff. Most of these staff have little detailed knowledge of what students are (now) expected to know. The majority will not be involved in any formal assessments, and reasonably view the teaching as a break from doing clinic after clinic.
  • there is little opportunity to provide meaningful feedback on student performance, or to see student knowledge grow. Students find it easy to ‘hide’, and absenteeism is high and the rate of ‘illness’ seems higher than amongst hospital doctors.
  • teaching the students plays second fiddle to service delivery. The terminology within NHS job plans is telling. When you see a patient it is called ‘direct clinical care (DCC)’. For maybe the remaining 10-20% of your time you have sessions allocated as ‘supporting professional activities (SPA)’. SPA time will include work relating to revalidation, CPD, hospital admin, teaching of registrars, and delivery of undergraduate teaching. Our overseas students pay in excess of 50K per year in fees, and each UK student attracts perhaps 50K from fees and government monies. Teaching undergraduates is merely a ‘supporting activity’ even when 50K is changing hands. Fettes or Winchester might be more careful with their terminology.

My critique is not concerned with the individuals, but the system. It is simply hard to believe that this whole edifice is coherent or designed in the students’ interest. It is, as Flexner described UK medical school teaching a century ago, wonderfully amateur. Pedagogically it makes little sense. Nor in all truthfulness is it enjoyable for many staff or many students. Each two weeks a new batch will arrive and groundhog days begins. Again. And again. And if you believe the figures bandied about for the cost of medical education, the value proposition seems poor. We could do better: we should do better.

[1] Lectures. Henry Miller, who was successively Dean of Medicine and Vice Chancellor at Newcastle described how…

“Afternoon lectures were often avoided in favour of the cinema. The medical school was conveniently placed for at least three large cinemas….in one particularly dull week of lectures we saw the Marx brothers in ‘A Day at the Races’ three times.”

Where’s the next frontier?

In a 1963 letter to molecular biologist Max Perutz, he wrote, “It is now widely realized that nearly all the ‘classical’ problems of molecular biology have either been solved or will be solved in the next decade…The future of molecular biology lies in the extension of research to other fields of biology, notably development and the nervous system.”

Sydney observed, and predicted, the flow of science: “Progress depends on the interplay of techniques, discoveries, and ideas, probably in that order of decreasing importance,” he said.

Man, the toolmaker. In this particularly case, a very special one.

Sydney Brenner (1927–2019) | Science [Obit of Sydney Brenner]

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We will need even bigger prisons

Mr Kapoor’s co-defendants were Michael Gurry, Insys’s former vice-president of managed markets, Richard Simon, former national director of sales, and former regional sales directors Sunrise Lee and Joseph Rowan. Michael Babich, former chief executive of the company, and Alec Burklakoff, former vice-president of sales, had already pleaded guilty.

The defendants face up to 20 years in prison. Andrew Lelling, US attorney for Massachusetts, said it was “the first successful prosecution of top pharmaceutical executives for crimes related to the illicit marketing and prescribing of opioids”.

Insys founder convicted in opioid bribery case | Financial Times

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A diagnosis not to miss: email apnea

A phenomenon that occurs when a person opens their email inbox to find many unread messages, inducing a “fight-or-flight” response that causes the person to stop breathing.

James Williams, ‘Stand Out of Our Light’

I wonder when this will be recognised as a bona fide occupational disease.

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You need a wallet biopsy

“However, if a wallet biopsy – one of the procedures in which American hospitals specialise – discloses that the victims are uninsured, it transfers them to public institutions.”

In Paul Starr, ‘The Social Transformation of American Medicine’.

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Late night thoughts #6

by reestheskin on 09/05/2019

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Late night thoughts on medical education #6: Structures

In the previous post in this series (Late night thoughts #5: Foundations) I wrote about the content or material of medical education, hinting at some of the foundational problems (pardon the meta). We have problems distinguishing between knowledge that is essential for some particular domain of medical practice, and knowledge that is genuinely foundational. The latter is largely speciality independent, less immediate than essential knowledge, and is rightly situated within the university. The expertise necessary to teach foundational knowledge lies within universities.

What I have not made explicit so far in this essay is also important. The best place to learn much essential knowledge is within the hospital, and during a genuine apprenticeship. There are various ways we can hone a meaningful definition or description of apprenticeship but key is that you are an employee, that you get paid, and you are useful to your employer. Our current structures do not meet any of these criteria.

How we got here

Kenneth Calman in the introduction to his book ‘Medical Education’ points out that medical education varies enormously between countries, and that there is little evidence showing the superiority of any particular form or system of organisation. It is one of the facts that encourages scepticism about any particular form, and furthermore — especially in the UK — leads to questioning about the exorbitant costs of medical education. It also provides some support for the aphorism that most medical students turn into excellent doctors despite the best attempts of their medical schools.

Across Europe there have been two main models of clinical training (I am referring to undergraduate medical student training, not graduate / junior doctor training). One model relies on large lectures with occasional clinical demonstrations, whereas the UK system — more particularly the traditional English system — relies on ‘ clerkships’ on the wards.

At Newcastle when I was a junior doctor we used to receive a handful of German medical students who studied with us for a year. They were astonished to find that the ‘real clinical material’ was available for them to learn from, with few barriers. They could go and see patients at any time, the patients were willing, and — key point— the clinical material was germane to what they wanted to learn. The shock of discovering this veritable sweetshop put some of our students to shame.

The English (and now UK) system reflects the original guiding influence of the teaching hospitals that were, as the name suggests, hospitals where teaching took place. These hospitals for good and bad were proud of their arms length relationship with the universities and medical schools. The signature pedagogy was the same as for junior doctors. These doctors were paid (poorly), were essential (the place collapsed if they were ill), and of course they were employees. Such doctors learned by doing, supplemented by private study using textbooks, or informal teaching provide locally within the hospital or via the ‘Colleges’ or other medical organisations. Whatever the fees, most learning was within a not-for-profit culture.

 Scale and specialisation

It was natural to imagine or pretend that what worked at the postgraduate level would work at the undergraduate level, too. After all, until the 1950s, medical education for most doctors ended at graduation where, as the phrase goes, a surgeon with his bag full of instruments ventured forth to the four corners of the world.

This system may have worked well at one stage, but I think it fair to say it has been failing for nearer a century than half a century. At present, it is not a system of education that should be accepted. There are two reasons for this.

First, medicine has (rightly) splintered into multiple domains of practice. Most of the advances we have seen over the last century in clinical medicine reflect specialisation, specialisation as a response to the growth of explicit knowledge, and the realisation that high level performance in any craft relies not solely on initial certification, but daily practice (as in the ‘practice of medicine’). Second, what might have worked well when students and teachers were members of one small community, fails within the modern environment. As one physician at Harvard / Mass General Hospital commented a few years back in the New England Journal of Medicine: things started to go awry when the staff and students no longer ate lunch together.

Unpicking the ‘how’ of what has happened (rather than the ‘why’ which is, I think obvious), I will leave to the next post. But here is a warning. I first came across the word meliorism in Peter Medawar’s writing. How could it not be so, I naively thought? But of course, historians or political scientists would lecture me otherwise. It is possible for human affairs to get worse, even when all the humans are ‘good’ or at least have good intentions. The dismal science sees reality even more clearly: we need to only rely on institutions that we have designed to work well — even with bad actors.

Biology is just messy

Some traits, such as adult height, are readily measured. The heritability of this trait is ∼60 to 80%. Attempts to characterize “height genes” have resulted in the identification of tens of thousands of genes, each of which contributes a small amount to this heritability. The plethora of factors is almost inevitable, given the vast number of cellular and physiological steps involved in the development of an adult human being. A model that accounts for ∼40% of height variability predicts individual heights to within 4 cm for 50% of people, but with errors of more than 10 cm for 5%. Thus, a sophisticated genomic analysis can predict height to some extent, but not well enough for use in ordering tailored clothing. Most direct-to-consumer genomic results are based on much less detailed analyses and many involve complex traits, so considerable skepticism is appropriate.

But such sensible comments, will not stem the hype — or the investors.

Consuming personal genomics | Science

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It’s not all physics

This is why I have doubts about mechanical theories such as disruptive innovation. Too often, they’re presented as a type of physical law: You drop a glass of wine, it always falls to the ground with an acceleration of 32.17405 ft/s2. This truth is indisputable…but it ignores the drunken clumsiness of the oaf who knocked the glass over, and discounts the quick reflexes and imaginative solutions you only get when there’s a human nearby.

Jean-Louis Gassée. A nice summary of why human agency matters, and also why companies fail.

First Winning Wars, Only To Lose Them Later – Monday Note

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Late night thoughts #5

by reestheskin on 02/05/2019

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Late night thoughts on medical education #5: Foundations

We sought out an examiner who would understand that anatomy was being taught as an educational subject and not simply for the practice of surgery. I thought I had found such a man in an old colleague. I listened while he asked the student to name the successive branches emerging from the abdominal aorta in a cadaver. When we got to the inferior mesenteric he asked what viscera were supplied by that vessel. The student gave a complete and correct answer but did not know the exact amount of the rectum supplied. The examiner asked me what I thought and I said that I thought he was very good, that the only question he had missed was the last one, which in my opinion, was trivial. No, said the anatomist, by no means trivial. You have to know that before you can excis the rectum safely.

My mind still boggles at the thought of a newly graduated doctor undertaking the total excision of the rectum on the faint remembrance of the anatomy he learned as a student.

George Pickering, “Quest for Excellence in Medical Education: A Personal Survey

When I was a medical student I read this book by Sir George Pickering. It was published in 1978, and I suspect I read it soon after the Newcastle university library acquired it. Why I came across it I do not know, but at the time ‘new volumes’ were placed for a week or two on a shelf adjacent to the entrance, before being assigned their proper home (or ‘final resting place’). It was a way to find things you didn’t know you might enjoy. I liked this book greatly, and have returned it on many occasions. Parts of it are wonderfully dated (and charming), but it remains a wonderful young man’s book written by an old man. Now I am an old man, who read it first as a young man.

Roger Schank summarise the problems of education this way:

There are only two things wrong with the education system:

  1. What we teach, and
  2. How we teach it

George Pickering’s quote relates to ‘what we teach’ — or at least what we expect students to know — but in clinical medicine ‘what we teach’ and ‘how we teach’ are intimately bound together. This may be true for much  education, but the nature of clinical exposure and tuition in clinical medicine imposes a boundary on what options we can explore. The other limit is the nature of what we expect of graduates. People may think this is a given, but it is not. If you look worldwide, what roles a newly qualified doctor is asked to fill vary enormously (something I discovered when I worked in Vienna).

Here is another quote, this time from the philosopher, Ian Hacking, who has written widely on epistemology, the nature of causality and the basis of statistics (and much else).

Syphilis is signed by the market place where it is caught; the planet Mercury has signed the market place; the metal mercury, which bears the same name, is therefore the cure for syphilis.

Ian Hacking | The Emergence of Probability

Well, of course, this makes absolutely no sense to the modern mind. We simply do not accept the validity of the concept of entities being ‘signed‘ as a legitimate form of evidence. But no doubt medical students of the time would have been taught this stuff. Please note, those priests of Evidence Based Medicine (EBM), that doctors have always practiced Evidence Based Medicine, it is just that opinions on what constitutes evidence change. Hacking adds:

He [Paracelsus] had established medical practice for three centuries. And his colleagues carried on killing patients.

I am using these quotes to make two points. The first, is that there is content that is correct, relevant to some clinical practice and which medical students do not need to know. This may seem so obvious that it is not necessary to say it. But it is necessary to say it. Pickering’s example has lots of modern counterparts. We could say this knowledge is foundational for some medical practice, but foundational is a loaded term, although to be fair I do not know a better one. The problem with ‘foundational’ is that it is widely used by academic rent seekers and future employers. Students must know this, students ‘must’ know X,Y and Z. I once started to keep a list of such demands, but Excel spreadsheets have limits. You know the sort of thing: ethics, resilience, obesity, child abuse, climate change, oral health, team building, management, leadership, research, EBM, professionalism, heuristics and biases etc. Indeed, there is open season on the poor undergraduate, much of which we can lay blame for at the doors of the specialist societies and the General Medical Council (GMC).

My second point, stemming from the second quote, is to remind that much of what we teach or at least ask students to know is wrong. There is a feigned ignorance on this issue, as though people in the past were stupid, whereas we are smart. Yes, anatomy has not changed much, and I am not chucking out all the biochemistry, but pace Hacking, our understanding of the relation between ‘how doctors work’ and ‘what underpins that knowledge’ is opaque. We can — and do — tell lots of ‘just-so’ stories that we think explain clinical behaviour, that have little rational or experimental foundation. Clinicians often hold strong opinions on how they arrive at particularly decisions: there is a lot of data to suggest that whilst you can objectively demonstrate clinical expertise, clinicians often have little insight into how they actually arrive at the (correct) diagnosis (beyond dustbin concepts such as ‘pattern recognition’ or ‘clinical reasoning’).

What is foundational knowledge?

If you are a dermatologist, and you wish to excise a basal cell carcinoma (BCC, a common skin cancer) from the temple, you need to be aware of certain important anatomical structures (specifically the superficial temporal artery, and the temporal branch of the facial nerve). This knowledge is essential for clinical practice. It is simple to demonstrate this: ask any surgeon who operates in this area. Of course, if you are a lower GI surgeon, this knowledge may not be at your finger tips. Looked at the other way, this knowledge is in large part specialty specific (or at least necessary for a subset of all medical specialties). What happens if you damage these structures is important to know, but the level of explanation is not very deep (pardon the pun). If you cut any nerve, you may get a motor or sensory defect, and in this example, you may therefore get a failure in frontalis muscle action.

This knowledge is not foundational because it is local to certain areas of practice, and it does not form the basis or foundation of any higher level concepts (more on this below). The Pickering example, tells us about what a GI surgeon might need to know, but not the dermatologist. Their world views remains unrelated, although the I prefer the view of the latter. There is however another point. We should be very careful about asking medical students to know such things. So what do we expect of them?

Beyond essential

I find the example of anatomical knowledge as being essential compelling. But only in terms of particular domains of activity. Now, you may say you want students to know about ‘joints’ in general, and there may well be merit in this (Pickering, I suspect, thought so), but knowing the names of all the bones in the hand or foot is not essential for most doctors. If we move beyond ‘essential’ what is left?

At one time anatomy was both essential and foundational. And I am using the term foundational here to mean those concepts that underpin not just specialty specific medicine, but medicine in the round. A few examples may help.

Whatever branch of medicine you practice, it is hard to do so without some knowledge of pharmacology. How deep you venture , is subject to debate, but we do not think knowing the doses and the drug names in the BNF is the same as knowing some pharmacology. 

Another example. I would find it very hard to converse with a dermatologist colleague without a (somewhat) shared view of immunology or carcinogenesis. Every sentence we use to discuss a patient, will refer and make use of concepts that we use to argue and cast light on clinical decisions. If you want to explain to a patient with a squamous cell carcinoma (SCC) who has had an organ transplant why they are at such increased risk of tumours, it is simply not possible to have a meaningful conversation without immunology or carcinogenesis (and in turn, genetics, virology, and histopathology). And for brevity, I am putting to one side, other key domains such as behaviour and behaviour modification, ethics, economics and statistics etc.

To return to my simple anatomical example of the excision of the BCC. The local anatomy is essential knowledge, but it is not foundational. What is foundational is knowing what might happen if you cut any nerve.

Sequencing of learning

Let me try and put the above in the context of how we might think about medical education and medical training.

Foundational knowledge is specialty (and hence career) independent. Its function is to provide the conceptual framework that underpin much clinical practice. This not to say that the exact mix of such knowledge applies to all clinical domains, but we might expect most of it to be familiar to most doctors. But none of it will, years later, have the same day-to-day immediacy of ‘essential knowledge’ — think of my example of the temporal branch of the facial nerve for the dermatologist excising facial tumours on a weekly basis.

In this formulation, the core purpose of undergraduate medical education is to educate students in such knowledge. The purpose is not therefore to produce doctors at graduation who are ‘just not very good doctors’ but graduates who are able to pursue specialty training and make sense of the clinical world around them. The job of a medical school is to produce graduates who can start clinical training in an area of their choice. They are now in a position to — literally — understand the language of the practising doctors that surround them. They are not mini-doctors, but graduates, embarking on a professional career.

By contrast most specialty knowledge is not foundational, but essential for those within that specialty — not medical students. If you learn dermatology, you might come across things that help you learn respiratory medicine or cardiology but to be blunt, not very often. Specialties are not foundational domains of knowledge. You do not need to know dermatology to understand cardiology or vice versa.

Place of learning

The best place to learn the ‘foundations’ are universities. Anatomy, again may be an exception, but if you want to learn immunology, genetics, statistics or psychology you have, I think, no alternative. Hospitals simply cannot provide this.

On the other hand, using Seymour Papert’s metaphor, if you to want learn French you should go to Frenchland, if you want to learn maths, you should go to Mathland and if you want to learn doctoring, you need to go to doctorland. Medical schools are not the place to learn how to find you way around doctorland — how could they be?

NB: I will use the epithet TIJABP, but as subsequent posts will confirm, I am serious.

WD (Bill) Hamilton

Scope for recognizing and accommodating exceptional individuals has been diminishing in British universities ever since. Hamilton published relatively few papers, in generally low status journals, and gained only a handful of grants much later in life. Bureaucratic measures of performance are increasingly important and judge the impact of an article only by the journal it is published in. This seriously undervalues radical originality, which although extremely rare is utterly vital to science. It is disturbing that a young Bill Hamilton today would probably find an academic career even more difficult to pursue.

Alan Grafen, in his obituary of Bill Hamilton (Biogr. Mems Fell. R. Soc. Lond. 50, 109–132 (2004)).

I post this excerpt following a discussion with somebody who had never heard of him. Hamilton’s enormous contributions to biology are not well known. You also have to wonder if the lack of a Nobel for biology diminishes medicine in the long run. Some things do indeed get worse.

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Why wait so long?

Apparently, on average, doctors interrupt patients within eighteen seconds of beginning their story. When we tell lawyers about this, they wonder why their medical friends wait so long.

Quoted in the ‘The Future of the Professions

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Arrogance before men; humility before your subject.

by reestheskin on 29/04/2019

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Sydney Brenner has died. Not quite the last of the handful of scientists who made one of the two scientific revolutions of the 20th century. The first half belonged to physics, the second to the biology that he co-created.

A precocious boy—a student at the University of the Witwatersrand by the time he was 15—and bullied for it, reading was his connection to the wider world. Courses, he said, never taught him anything. The way to learn was to get a book that told you how to do things, and then to start doing them, whether it was making dyes or, later in life, programming computers. If he thought more deeply than the other great biologists of his age, which he did, it was surely because he read further, too.

Reading Brenner was a staccato of insights. I hadn’t come across the ‘courses’ quote before, but no surprises there.

Obituary: Sydney Brenner died on April 5th – Irrepressible

The Economist | The AI will see you now

by reestheskin on 19/04/2019

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I read an earlier book of Eric Topol’s (The Creative Destruction of Medicine: How the Digital Revolution Will Create Better Health Care) and got a lot out of it, although I don’t know to what extent his ideas will come to pass. The Economist reviewed his more recent book, “Deep Medicine: How Artificial Intelligence Can Make Healthcare Human Again”.

The Economist reports:

The fear the author harbours [referring to Topol] is that AI will be used to deepen the assembly-line culture of modern medicine. If it confers a “gift of time” on doctors, he argues that this bonus should be used to prolong consultations, rather than simply speeding through them more efficiently.

But then goes on, in true Economist style:

That is a fine idea, but as health swallows an ever-bigger share of national wealth, greater efficiency is exactly what is needed, at least so far as governments and insurers are concerned…. An extra five minutes spent chatting with a patient is costly as well as valuable. The AI revolution will also empower managerial bean-counters, who will increasingly be able to calibrate and appraise every aspect of treatment. The autonomy of the doctor will inevitably be undermined, especially, perhaps, in public-health systems which are duty-bound to trim inessential costs.

Modern medicine — as implied — is already an assembly line culture. And yes, many of us think it will get worse. Staff retention will get worse, too. If you want to see the future of medicine as a career, look at what has happened to school teachers within public systems (or academics in most universities in the UK). Blame it all on poor Max Weber, if you will. Those in charge have very little feel for what ‘doing medicine’ is all about. But there seems to an elision between ‘greater efficiency is needed’ and talking to patients being ‘costly and valuable’. Interesting to note that only the public systems are obliged to trim ‘inessential costs’: Crony Capitalism feasts on the wants rather than the needs.

“There’s a classic medical aphorism,” he recalls. “‘Listen to the patient, they’re telling you the diagnosis.’ Actually, a lot of patients are just telling you a lot of rubbish, and you have to stop them and ask the pertinent questions.”

Jed Mercurio: ‘Facts used to have power. Now stupidity is a virtue’ | The Guardian

The question is when?

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The real world doesn’t care what you are bad at, it only cares what you are good at.

CP Grey.

Late night thoughts #4

by reestheskin on 11/04/2019

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Late night thoughts on medical education #4: Maps and scheming over schemas

One of the problems in learning clinical medicine is the relation between an overall schema of what you have to learn and the detail of the various components that make up the schema. I can remember very early in my first clinical year, seeing a child with Crohn’s disease, and subsequently trying to read a little about this disorder. My difficulty was that much of what I read, contrasted Crohn’s with various other conditions — ulcerative colitis, Coeliac and so on. The problem was that I didn’t know much about these conditions either. Where was I too start? A wood and the trees, issue.

I have, pace Borges written about maps and learning before. This is my current riff on that theme. I am going to use learning how to find your way around Edinburgh as my example. There is a simple map here.

That fine city

The centre of Edinburgh is laid out west to east, with three key roads north of the railway station. You can imagine a simple line map — like a London underground map — with three parallel main roads: Prince’s street, George Street and Queen street. You can then add in a greater level of detail, and some arterial routes in and out of the city centre.

If you were visiting Edinburgh for the first time, you could use this simple schema to try and locate places of interest. If you were lost and asked for help, it night prove useful. You could of course remember this simple plan — which is the most northerly of these three streets and so on — or perhaps use a simple cognitive prosthesis such as a paper map.

Students learn lots of these maps when they study medicine, because they are asked to find their way around lots of cities. They also forget many of them. The more complete the map, the harder it is to recall. If they have to navigate the same terrain most days, their recall is better. No surprises there. If you challenge a student you can literally see them reproducing the ‘map tool’ as they try and answer your question. Just like if you ask them the causes of erythema nodosum, you can literally see them counting their list on their fingers.

Novices versus experts

There are obvious differences between novices and experts. Experts don’t know need to recall the maps for multiple cities, instead they reside in the city of their specialty. Experts also tend not be good at recalling long lists of the causes of erythema nodosum, rather they just seem to recall a few that are relevant in any particular context. The map mataphor provides clues to this process.

If you challenge experts they can redraw the simple line figure that I started this piece with. They can reproduce it, although as the area of coverage is increased I suspect their map may begin to break the rules of 2D geometry: they move through the city professionally, but they are not professional cartographers.

The reason for this failure is that experts do not see the ‘line map’ in the mind’s eye, but actually see the images of the real geography in their mind as they move through it. They can deduce the simple line graph, but this is not what they use diagnostically to find their way around. By contrast, they see the images of the roads and building and can navigate based on those images. They have their own simulation, that they can usually navigate without effort. Of course, when they first visited Edinburgh, they too probably crammed a simple line graph, but as they spent time in the city, this simple cognitive tool, was replaced by experience.

This sort of way of thinking was AFAIK first highlighted by the US philosophers Dreyfus and Dreyfus. They pointed out novices use ‘rule based’ formal structures, whereas experts did not. This is obvious in craft based perceptual subjects such as dermatology (or radiology or histopathology). Experts don’t use check list to diagnose basal cell carcinomas or melanoma, they just compare what they see with a personal library of exemplars. The cognitive basis for this ability, taking advantage of the idea of ‘familial likeness’, has been studied for a long time, although I do not think the problem is solved in any sort of formal way. It is usually very fast — too fast for the explicit scoring methods promoted by most clinicians and educators.

Although this way of thinking is easiest to appreciate in perceptual subjects such as dermatology, most clinicians do not view things this way — even when the experimental evidence is compelling. Some believe the explicit rules they use to teach students, are how they do it themselves. Others believe that experts are fluent in some high level reasoning that students to not possess . They like to think that their exams can test this higher level ‘deep’ reasoning. I think they may be mistaken.

Finding the takeaway

There are some ideas that follow from my story.

  1. Without wishing to open up the delusion that factual recall is not critical to expertise, experts and novices do not possess the same methodology for working out what is going on. This means that we might promote simple structures that are placeholders for expert knowledge that will come through experience. These placeholders are temporary and meant to be replaced. We should be very careful about making them play a central role in assessment. To me this is akin to the way that some written Asian languages have different systems for children and adults.
  2. Some of these placeholders might need to be learned, but some can be external cognitive prostheses, such as a paper map or a BNF.
  3. Having to memorise lots of simple line-maps for lots of different cities imposes a heavy cognitive load on students. Long term memorisation of meaningful concepts works best when you don’t know you are trying to memorise things, but rather, you were trying to understand things. Our students are all too often held hostage by getting on by ‘reproducing’ concepts rather than understanding things.
  4. Becoming expert means minimising the distance between rote learning of line-maps and building up your library of exemplars. Distance here refers to time. In other words, the purpose of prior learning is to give you the ability to try and navigate around the city so that you can start the ‘real’ learning. Some cities are safer than others — especially if you might get lost. Better to start in Edinburgh than Jo’burg (the ITU is not the place to be a novice).
  5. If you look at the process of moving from being a student to acquiring high professional domain expertise (as a registrar), it would seem better to focus on a limited number of cities. What we should not do is to expect students to be at home in lots of different places. Better to find you feet, and then when they get itchy, move on.

[University] teaching awards seemed to have been added like sticking plasters to organisations whose values lay elsewhere.

Graham Gibbs, Item Number 41, 2016, SEDA

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We have no doctors (again)

by reestheskin on 09/04/2019

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We have no  incentives doctors.

Shortage of GPs will never end, health experts say | Society | The Guardian

OK, maybe the subeditor is to blame, but spare me the cartel of health think tanks and their pamphlets. Enticing people into general practice and keeping them there is not rocket science. When I was a junior doctor getting onto the best GP schemes around Newcastle was harder than getting the ‘professorial house-jobs’. Many people like, and want to be, GPs. If general practice is dying , it is in large part because the NHS is killing real general practice.

A few years back I wrote a personal view in the BMJ, arguing that an alternative model for dermatology in the UK would be to use office dermatologists, as in most of the first world. It is likely cheaper and capable of providing better care as long as you consider skin disease worthy of treatment. The feedback was not good or in some instances, even polite. The more considered views were that my suggestion was simply not possible: how would we train these people? Well jump on a ferry or book Ryanair, and look how the rest of Europe does it.

There are some general discussion points:

  1. The various NHS’s in the UK do many things very badly. The comparison is all too often with west of Shannon, rather than that body of land closer to us.
  2. The proportion of ‘health staff’ who are doctors has been dropping for over a century. This trend will — and should —continue.
  3. I write from Scotland: Adam Smith worked out the essential role of specialisation in economic efficiency many centuries ago. Conceptually, little has changed since, except the cost of health care.
  4. The limit on my third point is transaction costs of movement between specialised agents. This is akin to Ronald Coase and the theory of the firm: why do we outsource and when do firms outsource? How do we create — to use a software phrase — the right APIs
  5. Accreditation and a professional registration are there to protect the public. We will only encourage staff to take on the new roles needed  if  there is a return on their personal investment, in return for formal admission to the appropriate guilds. These qualifications need to be widely recognised and transferable, and the guilds will need to be UK wide (or, in the longer term, wider still).
  6. The current system of accreditation for those providing clinical care is bizarre. Imagine, you know a bright and ambitious teenager. You tell her to come and sit in your dermatology clinic for 5 years and, at the end, you employ her in your practice as a dermatologist — initially under your supervision. Well, we know that is not a sensible way to train doctors, but this is indeed the way the NHS is going about training those who will provide much face to face clinical care. Got a skin rash — see the nurse! (for a couple of personal anecdotes,  see below).
  7. The current system of accreditation for a particularly role for doctors is based around individual registration (with the General Medical Council). What the public require is however evidence of registration for defined roles and procedures (using the term procedure in a broad sense, and not just as in a ‘surgical procedure’). If somebody is a dental hygienist they are registered with the General Dental Council. This makes sense. The sleight of hand in medicine is that individual hospitals or practices have taken on the role of accreditation. I suspect if private individuals — rather than the NHS or its proxies — did this, they would be considered to be riding roughshod over the Medical Act (I am no lawyer…).
  8. Accreditation of  medical competence at the organisation level is indeed a possible alternative to individual personal registration. It might even have advantages. But this has not been the norm in the UK (or anywhere else), and the systems to do this are not in place.

Two personal examples:

I received an orthopaedic operation under a GA at a major teaching hospital. I was in the my mid 50’s, and previously fit. At the clerking / pre-op assessment by a nurse, my pulse and BP were recorded, and my urine was tested. I was asked : “Are your heart sounds normal and do you have any heart murmurs?” (There was no physical examination). My quip — that how could you trust a dermatologist on such matters — was met with a total lack of recognition. I recounted the story to the anaesthetist as a line was inserted in my arm. I also mentioned, for effect, that they didn’t ask about my dextrocardia….( I achieved the appropriate response — to this untruth). Subsequent conversations with anaesthetists confirmed that their opinions were in keeping with mine, and this “was management” and ‘new innovative ways of killing working’.

As a second year medical student, with a strong atopic background (skin, lungs, hay fever etc). I came out in what I now know to be widespread urticaria with angioedema. On going to the university health centre, the receptionist triaged me to the nurse, because it was ‘only skin’. I didn’t receive a diagnosis, just an admonition that this was likely due to not washing enough (which may have been incidentally true or false…). A more senior medical student provided me with the right diagnosis over lunch.

The latter example chimed with me, because  DR Laurence in his eclectic student textbook of Clinical Pharmacology lampooned the idea that nurses had ‘innate’ understandings of GI pharmacology, a delusion that remained widespread through my early medical career. Now, sadly, similar prescientific reasoning underpins much UK dermatology. The public are not well served.

What universities are about

by reestheskin on 08/04/2019

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James Williams worked at Google in a senior role for ten years, but has moved into philosophy at Oxford (for the money obviously….). He has written a wonderful short book, with the title “Stand out of our Light”. The name comes from a humorous account of a meeting between Diogenes and Alexander the Great (no spoilers, here).

His book is a critique of much digital technology that — to use his analogy — does not act as an honest GPS, but instead entices you along paths that make your journay longer. All in the name of capturing your attention, such that you are deflected from your intentions.

He starts chapter 3, with something comical and at the same time profound.

When I told my mother I was moving to the other side of the planet to study technology ethics at a school that’s almost three times as old as my country, she asked, “Why would you go somewhere so old to study something so new? In a way the question contained its own answer.

For me that is the power of the academic ideal.

Late night thoughts #3

by reestheskin on 05/04/2019

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Late night thoughts on medical education #3: Touching the void

Clayton Christensen gets mixed press: he cannot be accused of not pushing his ideas on ‘disruption’ to — well — disruption. So, his long history of predicting how a large number of universities will be bankrupt in a few years due to ‘innovation’ and ‘digital disruption’ I take with a pinch of salt (except I would add: an awful lot should be bankrupt). But I am glad I have read what he writes, and what he says in the following excepts from an interview makes sense to me:

Fortunately, Christensen says that there is one thing that online education will not be able to replace. In his research, he found that most of the successful alumni who gave generous donations to their alma maters did so because a specific professor or coach inspired them.

Among all of these donors, “Their connection wasn’t their discipline, it wasn’t even the college,” says Christensen. “It was an individual member of the faculty who had changed their lives.”

“Maybe the most important thing that we add value to our students is the ability to change their lives,” he explained. “It’s not clear that that can be disrupted.”

Half of US colleges will be bankrupt in 10 to 15 years.

We know several factors that are dramatically important in promoting learning in university students: the correct sort of feedback, and students who understand what feedback is about (and hence can use it); and close contact. Implicit in the latter is that there is continued contact with full time staff. When stated like this it is easy to understand why the student experience and faculty guided learning is so poor in most UK medical schools. The traditional way of giving timely feedback has collapsed as the ward / bedside model of teaching has almost disappeared; and teaching is horribly fragmented because we have organised teaching around the working lives of full time clinicians, rather than what students need (or what they pay for). When waiting times are out of control, when ‘bodies’ are queued up on trolleys, and when for many people getting a timely appointment to see a NHS doctor is impossible, it is self evident that a tweak here and there will achieve very little. Without major change things will get much worse.

When MIT under Chuck Vest put all of their coursewhere on line it merely served to illustrate that the benefits of MIT were not just in the materials, but in ‘being there’. And ‘being there’ is made up on other students, staff, and the interactions between these two groups.

Medical schools were much smaller when I was a medical student (1976-1982). Nevertheless, there was remarkably little personal contact, even then. Lectures were to 130+ students, and occasional seminars were with groups of 10-12. Changing perspective, students did recognise the Dean of Medicine, and could name many of the lecturers who taught them. Integration of the curriculum had not totally disrupted the need for a course of lectures from a single person, and the whole environment for learning was within a physical space that was — appropriately enough — called a medical school: something obvious to the students was that research and teaching took place in the same location. For the first two years, with one possible exception, I was fairly confident that nobody knew my name. If a student passed a lecturer in the street, I doubt if the lecturer would recognise the student, let alone be able to identify them by name.

Two members of staff got to know me in the first term of my opening clinical year (year 3): Nigel Speight, a ‘first assistant’ (senior registrar / lecturer) in paediatrics; and Sam Shuster, the Professor of Dermatology in Newcastle, who I started a research project with. For paediatrics, I was one of four junior students attached to two 30-bedded-wards, for ten weeks. It was very clear that Nigel Speight was in charge of us, and the four of us were invited around to his house to meet his kids and his wife. It was interesting in all sorts of ways — “home visits” as we discovered in general practice, often are — but I will not go into detail here.

Sam invited me around for an early evening dinner and I met his wife (Bobby), and we talked science, and never stopped — except to slag off Margaret Thatcher, and Milton Friedman. Meeting Sam was — using Christensen’s phrase — my ‘change of life’ moment. As I have written elsewhere, being around Sam, was electric: my pulse rate stepped up a few gears, and in one sense my cortical bradycardia was cured.

There are those who say that meaningful personal contact is impossible in the modern ‘bums on seats’ research university. I do not agree, although it is not going to happen unless we create the necessary structures, and this does not involve bloody spreadsheets and targets. First, even in mega-universities like the Open University, with distance learners, it was shown to be possible. Second, in some collegial systems, close personal contact (and rapid verbal feedback!) is used to leverage a lot of private study from students. In the two years I did research under Sam’s supervision (as an undergraduate — not later when I worked for him as a full time researcher), I doubt that I spent more than six hours one-to-one with him.

How you leverage staff time to promote engagement and learning is the the single most important factor in giving students what they need (and often what they want, once they know what that is ). We will continue to fail students until we realise what we have lost.

P53: You have no idea

by reestheskin on 04/04/2019

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P53 and Me | NEJM

A long, long time ago, I published papers on p53 and skin (demonstrating p53 upregulation in a UVR wavelength specific way). But germline mutations are something else. The account below is from a US medical student with Li-Fraumeni syndrome (germline p53 mutations)

The changes to my outlook, my psyche, have been much more profound. It’s impossible to describe the unique panic that comes with imagining that any of your cells could decide to rebel at any moment — to propagate, proliferate, “deranged and ambitious,” as my anatomy professor remarked of cancer. It sounds like a paranoid medical student’s fugue-state nightmare. Any cancer at any time: a recurrence, a new primary, a treatment-related malignancy. Some are more likely than others: brain, colon, leukemia, sarcomas. But the improvisation of my cells and their environment is the only limit. And then there are more practical questions: Should I wear sunscreen every day, or is it better just to stay inside?

I recently saw a college friend I hadn’t seen in 10 years and told her about my mutation. Nonmedical people react badly to such news. Medical people probably would, too, but we have rehearsed emotional distance, so our reactions often stay internal, to be unearthed later. “You must be very careful about what you…eat? Drink? What you…put into your body?” she said.

“No,” I said. “There’s no point to that.”

“Oh,” she said, saddened. “This must have changed you. It must really affect the way that you see…the world?”

I nodded, thinking, You have no idea.

Indeed.

Science and nonscience

by reestheskin on 03/04/2019

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I like statistics and spent most of my intercalated degree ‘using’ medical stats (essentially, writing programs on an IBM 360 mainframe to handle a large dataset, that I could then interrogate using the GLIM package from the NAG). Yes, the days of batch processing and punchcards. I found — and still find — statistics remarkably hard.

I am always very wary of people who say they understand statistics. Let me rephrase that. I am very suspicious of non-professional statisticians who claim that they find statistics intuitive. I remember that it was said that even the great Paul Erdos got the Monty Hall problem wrong.

The following is from a recent article in Nature:

What will retiring statistical significance look like? We hope that methods sections and data tabulation will be more detailed and nuanced. Authors will emphasize their estimates and the uncertainty in them — for example, by explicitly discussing the lower and upper limits of their intervals. They will not rely on significance tests. When P values are reported, they will be given with sensible precision (for example, P = 0.021 or P = 0.13) — without adornments such as stars or letters to denote statistical significance and not as binary inequalities (P  < 0.05 or P > 0.05). Decisions to interpret or to publish results will not be based on statistical thresholds. People will spend less time with statistical software, and more time thinking.

Scientists rise up against statistical significance

There is lots of blame to go around here. Bad teaching and bad supervision, are easy targets (too easy). I think there are (at least) three more fundamental problems.

  1. Mistaking a ‘statistical hypothesis’ for a scientific hypothesis, and falling into the trap of believing that statistical testing can operate as some sort of truth machine. This is the intellectual equivalent of imagining we can create a perpetual motion machine, or thinking of statistics as a branch of magic . The big offenders in medicine are those who like adding up other people’s ‘P’ values — the EBM merchants, keen to sell their NNT futures.
  2. The sociology of modern science and modern scientific careers. The Mertonian norms have been smashed. It is one of the counterintuitive aspects of science that whatever its precise domain of interest — from astronomy to botany — its success lies less with a set of formal rules than a set of institutional and social norms. Our hubris is to have imagined that whilst we cling to the fact that our faith in science relies on the ‘external test in reality’, we ignored how easy it is for the scientific enterprise to be subverted.
  3. This is really a component of the previous point (2). Although communication of results to others — with the goal of allowing them to build on your work — is key, the insolence of modern science policy has turned the ‘endgame’ of science into this communication measured as some ‘unit’ based on impact factor or ‘glossy’ journal brand. But there is more to it than this. The complexity of modern science often means that the those who produce the results of an experiment or observation are not in a position to build upon them. The publication is the end-unit of activity. So, some bench assay or result on animals might lead others to try and extend the work into the clinic. Or one trial might be repeated by others with little hard thought about what exactly any difference means.Contrast this with the foundational work performed by Brenner, Crick and others. Experiments were designed to test competing hypotheses, and were often short in duration — one or maybe two iterations might be performed in a day. Inaccuracy or mistakes were felt by the same investigator, with the goal being the creation of a large infrastructure of robust knowledge. Avoiding mistakes and being certain of your conclusions would allow you not to (subsequently) waste your own time. If you and your family are going to live in a house, you are careful where you lay the foundations. If you plan to build something, and then sell to make a fast buck, the incentives lie in a different place. Economists may be wrong about a lot of things — and should be silent on much more — but they are right about two important things: institutions and incentives matter. Period.

Science has been thought of as a form of ‘reliable knowledge’. This form of words always sounded almost too modest to me, especially when you think how powerful science has been shown to be. But in medicine we are increasingly aware that much modern science is not a basis for honest action at all. Blake’s words were to the effect that ‘every honest man is a prophet’. I once miswrote this in an article I wrote as ‘every honest man is for profit’. Many an error….

Turn-it-around

by reestheskin on 02/04/2019

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A couple of articles from the two different domains of my professional life made me riff on some old memes. The first, was an article in (I think) the Times Higher about the fraud detection software Turnitin. I do not have any firsthand experience with Turnitin (‘turn-it-in’), as most of our exams use either clinical assessments or MCQs. My understanding is that submitted summative work is uploaded to Turnitin and the text compared with the corpus of text already collected. If strong similarities are present, the the work might be fraudulent. A numerical score is provided, but some interpretation is necessary, because in many domains there will be a lot of ‘stock phrases’ that are part of domain expertise, rather than evidence of cheating. How was the ‘corpus’ of text collected? Well, of course, from earlier student texts that had been uploaded.

Universities need to pay for this service, because in the age of massification, lecturers do not recognise the writing style of the students they teach. (BTW, as Graham Gibbs has pointed out, the move from formal supervised exams to course work has been a key driver of grade inflation in UK universities).

I do not know who owns the rights to the texts students submit, nor whether they are able to assert any property rights. There may be other companies out there apart from Turnitin, but you can see easily see that the more data they collect, the more powerful their software becomes. If the substrate is free, then the costs relate to how powerful their algorithms are. It is easy to imagine how this becomes a monopoly. However, if copies of all the submitted texts are kept by universities then collectively it would make it easier for a challenger to enter the field. But network effects will still operate.

The other example comes from medicine rather than education. The FT ran a story about the use of ‘machine learning’ to diagnose retinal scans. Many groups are working on this, but this report was about Moorfields in London. I think I read that as the work was being commercialised, then the hospital would have access to the commercial software free of charge. There are several issues, here.

Although, I have no expert knowledge in this particular domain, I know a little about skin cancer diagnosis using automated methods. First, the clinical material and annotation of clinical material is absolutely rate limiting. Second, once the system is commercialised, the more any subsequent images can be uploaded the better you would imagine the system will become. This of course requires further image annotation, but if we are interesting in improving diagnosis, we should keep enlarging the database if the costs of annotation are acceptable. As in the Turnitin example, the danger is that the monopoly provider becomes ever more powerful. Again, if the image use remains non-exclusive, then it means there are lower barriers to entry.

All in the stars

The story is about the ‘approval’ by the Norwegian higher education regulator of courses in astrology. The justification is interesting, relying on the fact that “astrologers had good employment prospects”. So that is alright then. To be fare the regulators argue that the can only enforce the ‘law’, as is. You can find similar such goings on close to the homes of many of us in the UK. (Time Higher Education, 28th March, 2019).

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Our backpacks contained some clothes, but they were mainly stuffed with dreams.

In July 1972, my wife Maureen and I jumped in a Mini Traveller and left England heading east. I’d just graduated from London Business School with an MBA, and the plan was we’d travel as far as that £65 car would carry us. Times change; these days MBA graduates emerge with a backpack full of debts and need to start earning fast to pay them off. Our backpacks contained some clothes, but they were mainly stuffed with dreams. That dirt-cheap car carried us all the way to Afghanistan.

The long journey of Lonely Planet

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Content matters!

One in 10 people on the planet are unable to read or write. And many of those who can read, don’t. The reason isn’t lack of interest or a preference for smartphones. It’s simpler than that: they just don’t have books.

The bookseller of Bissau | Financial Times

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Alickadoo

Well, a new word for me. Nice turn of phrase from Alun Wyn Jones about the decision to allow the opposition to decide on whether the roof is open or closed at Cardiff Arms Park, Millennium Stadium, Principality stadium.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s for the alickadoos, isn’t it? I don’t wear a shirt and tie long enough to make those decisions.”

Definition here

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