Or: evidence that healthcare professionals are occasionally permitted to leave the hospital.
Disclaimer
This is a personal, light-hearted reflection and does not represent the views of my employer, the NHS, the NMC, the ICCF, the Indian Over-50s cricket team, the International Flipper Pinball Association or anyone responsible for maintaining a pinball machine. No patients, clinical cases or confidential information are discussed. Colleagues are mentioned only in relation to publicly available sporting or competitive achievements; permission should, of course, be obtained before publishing identifiable workplace information. Any inaccuracies are entirely mine, although tournament tables are notoriously less forgiving.
There is a persistent misconception about people who work in hospitals.
Apparently, we live there.
We emerge from various doors at 07:30, wander around looking slightly dehydrated for approximately twelve hours, discuss CRP results over sandwiches, become inexplicably excited when somebody has opened their bowels and then disappear back into a cupboard until the following morning.
This is not entirely accurate.
Most of us have homes.
Some even have families.
And, remarkably, quite a few of us have hobbies.
This matters more than it might initially appear. Healthcare is an occupation with substantial cognitive, emotional and physical demands, and interests away from work, physical activity, social engagement and the ability to create psychological distance from the workplace can all contribute to wellbeing.
In other words, doing something that has absolutely nothing to do with hospitals is probably quite sensible.
Which is unfortunate, because even when we leave hospital, some of us choose hobbies that involve intense competition, meticulous preparation and the possibility of crushing disappointment.
Apparently relaxation is a spectrum.
And our surgical department has developed quite a collection.
First, Cricket. Proper Cricket. International Cricket.
Let us begin with Krish Subramanian, one of our colorectal colleagues.
I had always known Krish liked cricket.
This is a little like saying Magnus Carlsen “quite enjoys chess”.
Krish has played the game at a serious level for most of his life. His cricketing CV includes representing Indian national schools teams at Under-15 and Under-19 level, captaining his medical college to an India-wide tournament victory, playing high-level cricket after moving to Britain and subsequently being selected for India Over-50s.
Yes.
India.
Not “India-themed charity match behind the social club”.
The actual country.
He has represented India in international over-50s cricket, including major international tournaments, and remains more than useful with the ball.
During one international tour he returned three wickets in nine overs in a victory over the USA Over-50s. In another match against the same opposition, he again bowled economically and contributed another wicket.
These are not the statistics of somebody who turns up on Sunday because the team is one short and his wife wants him out of the house.
There is also a rather extraordinary story from his international cricketing life. During a tournament in Barbados, a teammate collapsed on the field. Krish, reportedly the only person present trained in CPR, performed prolonged resuscitation and delivered a shock before the player was transferred to hospital.
Which means that even his hobby occasionally develops into acute care.
Some people simply cannot switch off.
For most of us, going away for a cricket weekend means remembering sun cream and wondering whether the bar is still open.
For Krish it apparently means packing whites, spikes and the implicit possibility of becoming the medical emergency response team.
Then There Is Chess
At which point I should probably declare my own contribution to the department’s collection of slightly excessive hobbies.
Chess.
I have played since childhood, initially over the board across Germany and Europe and, eventually, correspondence chess for England.
Now, correspondence chess requires clarification because whenever I mention it, people of a certain age immediately imagine two elderly gentlemen mailing postcards to each other containing:
1. Nf3
followed six weeks later by:
…d5
Modern elite correspondence chess is rather different. It is played through dedicated servers, permits enormous analytical depth and involves players who are perfectly capable of spending several days deciding that the move they originally considered in seven seconds was correct after all.
My ICCF record eventually produced the International Master title in 2023.
The foundations had been laid several years earlier with a CCE (Correspondence Expert) norm, before the more substantial breakthrough came in the Ian M. Pheby Celebration Tournament, a Category 8 event containing a strong international field.
I finished joint first with John Rhodes on 7.5/14 and achieved an International Master norm.
Further norm achievements followed and, in November 2023, the required standards for the ICCF International Master title had been completed.
There have also been the England appearances.
In the 2023 George D. Pyrich Memorial Team Tournament Final, England finished third and I scored 6.5/12 without losing a game.
More recently I have continued representing England internationally, because apparently I have learned nothing about stress management.
There is over-the-board chess as well, although there I remain reassuringly mortal.
My published FIDE ratings have sat above 2000 in classical chess and around the upper-1900s in rapid, and I have played competitive tournaments across Europe over many years.
One particular highlight, depending on your definition of the word “highlight”, was sitting opposite Bulgarian Grandmaster Kiril Georgiev in Mallorca.
He was rated somewhere in the stratosphere (ELO >2600).
I was not.
I lost.
This paragraph is included principally to demonstrate that the universe remains properly balanced.
So within surgery we already had international cricket and international correspondence chess.
A perfectly respectable collection.
And then the new postgraduate doctors arrived.
“I’m Going to Pinfest.”
As happens every year, a new crop of postgraduate doctors arrived and began the traditional process of discovering where everything is.
Where are the notes?
Who requests that?
Which consultant is on?
Where is theatre?
Why does the printer say it contains no paper despite visibly containing paper?
Eventually, once everyone has survived the first few weeks, normal conversations begin and you discover that these doctors actually have lives beyond blood requests and discharge summaries.
One of our new Upper GI doctors, Owen Lloyd, casually mentioned that he was going to Pinfest 2026.
I nodded.
Naturally.
“Pinfest.”
With younger colleagues, I assumed this was probably some festival.
Music, perhaps.
A field.
Several thousand people.
Questionable toilets.
Somebody called DJ TurboFerret playing until 4am.
No.
Pinball.
Competitive pinball.
And not merely playing a few games of pinball.
It gradually became apparent that Owen is extremely good at it.
This was unexpected.
Not because Owen gives any particular indication that he would be bad at pinball, but because until that moment I had not realised there was sufficient competitive infrastructure surrounding pinball for somebody to be extremely good at it.
There is.
A lot of it.
Competitive pinball has international rankings, organised tournaments, national standings and players travelling considerable distances to compete.
And Owen sits among the leading players in the country.
So “quite likes pinball” once again turned out to be inadequate.
We apparently employ a competitive pinball player.
I love surgery.
Pinfest 2026: Apparently This Is Very Serious
UK Pinfest 2026 took place in Daventry and is one of the major dedicated pinball events in Britain.
More than 100 machines were available across the weekend.
That is not a typo.
More than 100 pinball machines.
In one hotel.
For several days.
Somewhere there must have been a conference manager reconsidering every career decision that had brought them to this point.
The main Pinfest Open attracted 126 competitors.
Qualifying ran across Saturday and into Sunday morning, with only the leading players progressing into the knockout stages.
Owen qualified joint tenth.
Not bad for someone who presumably also has to remember how to prescribe dalteparin.
The knockout stages then moved into head-to-head best-of-five contests.
Owen progressed through the field and reached the semi-finals.
There he faced William Jarvis, who eventually won the match across a selection of machines including Guardians of the Galaxy, Jaws and Aerosmith.
This left Owen playing Joshua Iles for third place.
And because competitive pinball evidently understands drama, third place came down to a single game.
On Guardians of the Galaxy.
Owen won.
Third in the Pinfest Open.
From 126 players.
Along with £700 prize money for his trouble.
I have absolutely no idea how one trains for this.
Do you do wrist exercises?
Reaction drills?
Video analysis?
Does somebody stand behind you with a stopwatch shouting:
“FASTER FLIPPERS, LLOYD!”
Is there periodisation?
Strength and conditioning?
A multidisciplinary Pinball Performance Team?
I am now sufficiently fascinated that none of these possibilities seems ridiculous.
Pinball Has Changed Since 1992
My mental model of pinball was formed during the 1980s and 1990s.
You found a machine in an arcade.
You put money into it.
A small metal ball immediately disappeared between the flippers.
You blamed the machine.
Repeat.
I had not appreciated that competitive pinball had developed into an organised international discipline with rankings, qualification structures, national competitions and prize money.
Nor had I appreciated the underlying skill.
High-level players are not simply keeping the ball alive.
Modern machines reward strategic shot selection, mode progression, multiball management, risk assessment and the ability to control a highly dynamic physical system under pressure.
Which, actually, sounds worryingly familiar.
Perhaps this explains why a doctor is good at it.
Assess rapidly changing information.
Recognise patterns.
Prioritise competing objectives.
Maintain concentration despite flashing lights and irritating noises.
Try desperately to stop something important disappearing down a hole.
Medicine has apparently been providing transferable skills all along.
The Departmental Triathlon Nobody Requested
We therefore appear to have developed an unusual extracurricular portfolio.
Krish represents India in international over-50s cricket.
I represent England in correspondence chess and somehow acquired an International Master title while spending several years staring suspiciously at chess positions.
And Owen travels around the country attacking pinball machines with sufficient competence to finish third in one of Britain’s largest tournaments.
Which raises an obvious question.
Which achievement is the most impressive?
International cricket?
International Master in chess?
Third at UK Pinfest?
Naturally, as the chess player writing the article, I am uniquely qualified to conduct an objective assessment.
Therefore I have decided not to.
Primarily because Owen now knows where I work.
Also because pinball machines are considerably heavier than chessboards.
There Is, However, a Serious Point
Healthcare can become extraordinarily consuming.
There is always another patient to review, another result to chase, another letter to dictate, another guideline to finish, another rota problem and another email marked URGENT which, on inspection, has been urgent for approximately eleven days.
Professional identity matters.
But it should not become the entirety of personal identity.
The colorectal colleague is also an international cricketer.
The nurse practitioner may also be a chess player.
The postgraduate doctor might spend his weekend in Daventry battling the country’s best players on Guardians of the Galaxy.
And somebody you have walked past for five years without asking may be a painter, ultramarathon runner, musician, beekeeper or frighteningly competitive crown-green bowler.
These things matter because people need areas of their lives in which the outcome is not a blood result, an operation or a discharge date.
Research may dress this up as resilience, psychological detachment, recovery experience or protection against occupational burnout.
Sometimes it is simpler than that.
Sometimes you just need something else.
Preferably something involving a bat, 64 squares or a metal ball travelling at alarming speed through a machine covered in flashing lights.
So the next time somebody suggests healthcare professionals have no life outside work, I can confidently disagree.
We absolutely do.
It is simply that, judging by the evidence from our surgical department, many of us have chosen hobbies that are every bit as competitive, obsessive and unnecessarily complicated as our day jobs.
Which probably explains quite a lot.
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