Together, they explored an intimate body cavity previously of perceived interest only to the US Department of Homeland Security. The screen of the endoscope charted all too clearly the progress of the excavation – a strange mixture of a drain survey and some peculiar form of medical archaeology.

Lumpen and ugly, the tumour, when it loomed into view, looked out of place and sinister.

“Lumpen and ugly, the tumour, when it loomed into view, looked out of place and sinister”

Maybe it was the sedation, but my first thought on hearing the boggling diagnosis of bowel cancer was: “Great, I’ve just paid out for two life memberships…”

Bitterness followed soon after. A year later, after some impressive surgery, a fortnight in hospital and six bewildering months of chemotherapy I emerged chastened and thoughtful. How I had missed the warning signs of this all-too-common disease, despite a career in science that has put heavy emphasis on evidence-based reasoning, was a mystery.

Only when I looked back at my science-fiction writing over the past few years did I begin to see the pattern emerging of someone sinking towards the dark side. In six of my last nine published stories, a central character either dies or suffers life-threatening illness. In one, I even gave the key protagonist the nerve damage I would get from chemotherapy – before I knew I was ill.

It seems that even scientists are adept at self-delusion. As soon as I realised that for weeks I had been choosing my route across campus on the basis of proximity of toilets, I should have seen my doctor, not made excuses to myself that I was busy – a degree of obfuscation that may yet prove fatal.

On the bright side, I have had more hugs this year than in the previous decade and an impressive amount of support from often surprising directions. But, with awareness campaigns ongoing in the US and UK, the take-home message is this: if you think all is not well with your entrails, don’t rely on it getting better by itself – get professional advice.

Trust me, it’s worth it.            

At its best, the relationship can be mutually beneficial, with both sides gaining from the experience of the other. At its worst, a staggeringly destructive vendetta can split the ranks of these highly educated professionals into factions.

The result can be a culture where the scientists consider the administrators to be idle, overpaid, officious, taking delight in putting obstacles in their way and quite incapable of spotting a good idea even if it had a flashing neon sign over it. Administrators, on the other hand, can believe that scientists are undisciplined, scruffy, arrogant spendthrifts who gleefully defy authority at every opportunity.

Symptoms of this culture include the clustering of scientists and administrators at opposite ends of the coffee room, and a preponderance of hissed conversations which begin: “Do you know what they’ve done now?” Just in case you have never come across this peculiarly British form of conflict, here is an example from one of the nation’s more illustrious senior common rooms some years ago.

Scientist: “I need to order this Megatron XCR20 right now.”

Administrator: “You can’t. There is no funding remaining for capital items in the current financial year.”

Scientist: “But I’ve got to have it.”

Administrator: “You should have made a bid for the money at the proper time.”

Scientist: “I’m a physicist not an accountant. It’s your job to find the money.”

Administrator: “Well, ask for it now and maybe you’ll get it next year.”

Scientist: “If that’s your attitude I’ll take the money out of my lab supplies account.”

Administrator (shocked): “You can’t do that! We cannot allow virement between different accounts.”

Scientist: “Why not? And what the hell does ‘virement’ mean anyway?”

Administrator (spilling his coffee): “Well, what is a Megatron XCR20 for that matter?”

As the two of them locked antlers, I beat a hasty retreat. From a safe distance it was possible to see what had gone wrong: both were trying to make a point, but neither was prepared to discuss why things were needed or why systems had to work in a particular way. In their paranoid desire to guard their own ground they were failing to communicate.

Sadly this type of scuffle is often only a preliminary skirmish before the main battle. The real problems start if the relationship between scientist and administrator breaks down completely. Once they stop talking both sides are bound to lose.

Despite this, some organisations breed a blindly rigid class structure which makes imperial Rome look as relaxed as the Woodstock festival. Sadly, this seems to engender a lack of respect for the contribution to the organisation made by those outside your own specialism. If you don’t know what other people do, you are hardly likely to enthuse about the way they do it.

Examples like the one above are, thankfully, becoming less prevalent. I suspect that a combination of common sense, the dismal economic outlook and sheer survival instinct has convinced all but the most entrenched that both scientists and administrators are really on the same side.

They may not exactly hug each other, but they recognise the necessity of working together. A culture based on mutual respect is more likely to succeed in today’s harsh environment than one partitioned on the basis of mutual suspicion. Pockets of resistance remain, however, in the darker corners of academia and perhaps now is the time to purge these venomous perceptions once and for all.

I propose that we pledge ourselves to bring a new equality to the workplace. Join the campaign to stamp out the internecine wrangling between scientists and administrators by completing this simple multiple choice statement. Then stick it up in the lab or office to show just what a warm and open person you are. Delete as applicable:

“I pledge as a member of the New Communication Movement that I will [honour/protect/improve] the [profitable/tolerable/terrible] relationship between scientists and administrators in this [college/university/laboratory]. I further warrant that when I find myself getting [bored/frustrated/annoyed/apoplectic] with one of these [administrators/scientists/turkeys/bozos] I will refrain from [acts of violence/shouting/satire.

“Instead, I will ask myself: Have I explained what I really mean? Have I listened to what [she/he] is saying? Does it have to be done my way? Has the other way got any benefits for me? Am I making myself look [stupid/arrogant/ignorant]?

“Finally, I undertake that in all my [dealings/disputes] with [scientists/administrators] I will act with [decorum/restraint/true fellowship] and will never again call the [moron down the corridor/lab supervisor/physicist/accountant] a [hippy/weirdo/pompous ass] or a [psychopath/self-seeker/dopehead/mindless jerk].

A decent reference from your academic mentor is probably the most valuable
thing that you can take away from a university education. On its own the
degree certificate with its strangely stilted language, is of only limited
value – the phrase ‘second class, division two’ sounds more like a ticket
for a football special than a qualification. When faced with the mind-numbing
prospect of interviewing dozens of identically qualified, newly shorn and
business-suited graduates, any sensible panel of dignitaries will turn to
the references provided by the candidates’ tutors or supervisors to try
to filter out anyone with a concealed defect.

Over the years, reference writing in the English language has developed
into something approaching an art form. This stems partly from a desire
for style and grace on the part of the author, but it is mostly an artful
technique for passing on sensitive information about an applicant without
having recourse to overtly libellous comments. Direct statements by the
referee concerning the candidate’s suitability for a post are becoming rare.
In more robust times, when academic disagreements were settled by single
combat rather than in court, comments such as ‘this chap is good, but has
a weakness for strong ales’, ‘smokes like a chimney and has a hygiene prob
lem’ and ‘complete wally, don’t touch him with a bargepole’ gave clear,
unambiguous pointers to the recipient.

Today the sentiments remain the same, but most of the telling comments
are buried deep in the text. The potential employer has to stay particularly
alert to subtle nonstatements such as ‘Jones has made a major contribution
in his chosen field . . .’ This apparently impressive phrase, which omits
to mention whether that field is endocrinology or windsurfing, is the literary
equivalent of failing to look someone straight in the eye.

Many adjectives have a doublespeak definition, when used as part of
a reference, which could cause grave mental confusion to the non-native
English speaker. A candidate who is described as ‘enthusiastic’, for example,
may turn out to be an awesomely irritating person with manic tendencies
– the sort who can lay waste to a nicely relaxed laboratory in seconds.
Someone labelled ‘motivated’ could be almost dangerous, especially if the
motivation is a lust for glory which is unchecked by anything as mundane
as morality.

‘Organised’ is another ambiguous term which should not go unchallenged;
the idea of trying to work while The Organiser lines up your samples in
neat rows may not appeal to everyone. Employers should beware, too, of anyone
described as ‘help ful’; they may spend so much time being helpful to other
people that they never get their own job done.

If the referee waxes lyrical about the candidate’s dress sense and punctuality,
it might be safe to assume that the author is raking around trying to find
something nice to say. Subtle subplots can, however, be at work even here.
The term ‘colourful’ is often used as a synonym for ‘bizarre’ or ‘outlandish’;
and praise of the candidate’s timekeeping ‘despite an active social life’
can be used to imply a lifestyle of utter depravity and indulgence.

Despite the machiavellian complexities of the problem I suggest that
there is a way of navigating the unsuspecting foreigner through this minefield
of style and idiom. I propose the definition of a ‘British Standard’ form
letter with multiple choice options, allowing the whole gamut of opinions
to be expressed clearly and unambiguously. It might go something like this:
Dear (Colleague/Sir/Madam), Thank you for your (letter/fax/phone call) regarding
(candidate) and (his/her) suitability for the post of (job description).

I have known (candidate) (vaguely/slightly / well / intimately) for
(three / five / many) years and have (never/sometimes/often/always) found
(him/her) to be a par ticularly (ghastly / nondescript / pleasant / warm/gifted)
person.

(His/her) skills in the field of (specialism) can only be described
as (nonexistent/minimal/adequate/masterful) and I have (every/some/slight/no)
hesitation in recommending (candidate) for the post.

Should you appoint (him/her), I am (not/fairly/completely) happy that
(he/she) will (fail/succeed) in (devastating/achieving) your research objectives.

Yours (Faithfully/Sincerely/Truly/Ever).

It may not have the subtlety and style of the handcrafted version, but
think of the time and confusion that could be saved, not to mention the
hours of moral agonising. If such a letter were accepted as a pan European,
or even global academic standard, the pro forma could be circulated in any
number of languages and scripts. As each option would be given an equivalent
meaning in every language, the resulting reference could be safely interpreted
by a recipient of any nationality.

Perhaps the final stage would be to supply the letter in all fashionable
wordprocessor formats – then at least you could blame the computer if anyone
accused you of libel.

John Gilbey hates writing references. He lives in North Devon.

I could, of course, re-format the disc and use it again – but I have
never felt completely happy about doing that. Instead, I usually put the
disabled disc in a shoebox marked ‘Dead Floppies’ and go and look for my
back-up copy. When I came to do this, I found that the shoebox was full
to bursting point with other superannuated discs. I had the choice of either
getting a bigger box or finding other uses for some of the damn things.
Here are some suggestions for recycling them; there must be millions of
dead discs out there somewhere: Frisbee. When laboratory life becomes too
tedious, why not relieve the torpor with a frisbee contest? The bigger 8-inch
floppies have excellent range and handling characteristics – see if you
can get one in the bin from the other side of the lab.

Psychosis inducer. If your grumpy supervisor is of a nervous disposition
he can be helped on his way to early retirement by a demonstration of disc
destruction. Label a disc ‘Thesis, master copy’, cut it in two and leave
it in his pigeonhole.

Trophy. With all the short-term research contracts there are today,
people are coming and going all the time. Save money on the weekly whip-round
by spraying a disc with gold paint and gluing it to a nice piece of wood.
This will be just as useful as the silver plated rose bowl you would have
bought them otherwise.

Earrings. Three-and-a-half-inch discs can have a useful role as hi-tech
fashion accessories. Dangled from young lobes they will help the wearer
cut a dash at any academic gathering. They are now available in a variety
of bold colours, guaranteed to clash with any outfit.

Dartboard. Even in the more relaxed departments, the presence of a dartboard
in the office is frowned upon. Pin a floppy to the notice board and you
can still get in some sneaky practice. Score 10 for hitting the disc, 20
for the label, 30 for the hole in the middle and 50 for the index hole.

Beermats. Although the case of a five-and-a-quarter-inch disc floppy
is plastic, the lining is a wonderfully absorbent fabric. These discs make
excellent hygienic beermats. The added bonus is that if you happen to be
short of cash, you can wring some of the slops back into the glass.

Bookmark. Give yourself some techno-cred by carrying a large book with
floppies (apparently) marking crucial passages. If the book is entitled
Fortran – A Philosophical Analysis, and you frown a lot, you will instantly
gain guru status.

Blinkers. People like sunny offices – but they also like to be able
to see their computer monitor. The two aims are mutually exclusive. If your
software goes in when the Sun comes out, try taping a disc to the side of
your head to reduce the glare.

Guano remover. Anyone with pet animals or small children will welcome
this one. The form-fitting floppy is unequalled in its ability to lift semi-solid
organic residues from domestic furnishings. It is also excellent for getting
the frost off car windscreens. I never travel without one.

Stress relief. When someone makes you wild with fury, take a defunct
floppy disc, attack it with the stapler and hole-punch, stamp on it, swear
at it, then set light to it and throw it out of the window. You will feel
much better – until, that is, you realise that it was the wrong disc.

John Gilbey is saving up for a hard disc. He lives in north Devon.