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While reading in Mikhail Bulgakov's A Country Doctor's Notebook about the author's experiences of clinical situations that, as a newly qualified doctor in 1916, he was really quite unqualified to deal with, both in terms of education and experience, my mind turned to my own exposure to such problems when I was newly qualified in the 1940s. I think things are better now. My baptism came one January night. I had done one surgical house job, and while awaiting my call up to military service, which came to us all in those days, I was filling in time as a locum for an elderly, singlehanded practitioner. Part of the practice remit was the care of a small midwifery unit. The telephone rang in the small hours. “Night sister speaking, doctor. I have a primip who has been in the second stage for more than two hours. I think she needs a forceps delivery.” Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted, so I had a quick look at the book. “Assess the lie of the head. Which way are the ears pointing? Which blade goes in first? Why does this have to happen to me?” I arrived at the unit. “Who gives the anaesthetic, sister?” I asked. I had not heard of pudendal block at that stage, and they would not have been equipped. “You start her off, doctor, and I'll take over.” Induction by chloroform with rag and bottle is perhaps as easy a ride as one can give a novice. To my surprise, it seemed to go reasonably well, and the low forceps delivery was easier than I had any right to expect. Sister guided me through tying off the cord and delivering the placenta and then gave me a welcome cup of tea, which I drank while chatting to the new mother and making what I hoped were appropriate comments about her new son. “What is your first name doctor?” asked the mother. I was a little hesitant in answering. First names in those days, in contrast to today, were the preserve of family and close friends. “Richard,” I answered. “Then I'll call him Richard.” Driving back to my digs with that warm glow when the gods have been kind, I pondered. This business of names—it must be a frequent compliment. After the army, and a couple of obstetric house jobs, I found myself in a country practice with its own cottage hospital and nine obstetric beds and a turnover of some 240 deliveries a year. Many years and scores of babies later, I retired, but it never happened again. I wonder where young Richard is now? He must be 54.