The real abortion scandal? That two doctors must testify a woman's sanity

Andrew Lansley is "shocked and appalled" at doctors pre-signing consent forms -- but the medical pro

The Care Quality Commission (CQC), ordered to perform spot-checks at abortion clinics, revealed yesterday that up to one fifth of clinics have been breaking the law by allegedly allowing doctors to pre-sign consent forms, presumably before they are assigned to a specific patient. Health Secretary Andrew Lansley is reportedly "shocked and appalled" by the findings.

I am shocked and appalled that in 2012 we still require two doctors to testify not to the physical fitness and consent of the woman in question but to the indomitable risk a continued pregnancy poses to her physical and mental health.

Assessed from that perspective, being pro-choice is actually nothing of the sort. Presuming you are bodily healthy, what you are actually consenting to is the notion that to be refused an abortion would make you just a baby away from barmy.

Thankfully, the medical profession is more pragmatic than the law; it's not too often you meet a glassy-eyed new mother lugging a child about, lamenting, "Oh, you know, there just wasn't enough chance of me having a breakdown so they wouldn't let me not have her." And doctors have had to be -- they are working with a piece of legislation that has only been updated once since 1967, an era where women couldn't get a mortgage without a male guarantor. Is it any wonder then that some doctors may think the double-signing about as anachronistic and inappropriate? And what about the thousands of women, myself included, that have ever had an abortion? It's time the law acknowledged that women can safely -- and sanely -- consent to abortion, with full awareness of the implications as they do so, and that one informed medical opinion is enough to guide that.

For a government that claims to want to give people more control over their own lives, the coalition has done a neat job of allowing the paternalist, Conservative backbenchers the steer of the abortion debate. The CQC investigation, the circumstances of which are politically suspect according to BPAS chief executive Ann Furedi, comes just a little too soon after Nadine Dorries' failed Bill proposing independent abortion counselling. It also conveniently distracts from the berating Lansley has faced over NHS reforms. Nothing like an abortion brouhaha to make people forget about the mismanagement of the health service -- except perhaps setting the already overstretched CQC to investigating procedural signatures rather than the abuse of old people or children isn't the slickest way of doing it.

The recent furore relating to illegal sex selective abortion has made the matter of women's "choice" even more inflammatory. But neither doing away with the need for the two-doctor signature rule nor changing the emphasis of the law to give women the right to opt out of motherhood rather than out of madness would automatically legitimise the right to sex selection. (Surely not revealing the sex of the foetus, except in circumstances where disability necessitated it, would circumvent that pretty easily?) Nor would it see the number of abortions rise exponentially. What anti-abortionists never seem to grasp is that, whatever the circumstances, nobody seeks a termination lightly. While not necessarily traumatic, it is a grave decision you do not forget making. And neither one, nor two, nor a thousand doctors' signatures can affect that -- unless the government makes it harder to seek abortion in the first place.

Nichi Hodgson is a 28-year-old freelance journalist specialising in sexual politics, law and culture.

Nichi Hodgson is a writer and broadcaster specialising in sexual politics, censorship, and  human rights. Her first book, Bound To You, published by Hodder & Stoughton, is out now. She tweets @NichiHodgson.

Getty
Show Hide image

The dog at the end of the lead may be small, but in fact what I’m walking is a hound of love

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel.

There is a new, hairy face in the Hovel. I seem to have become a temporary co-owner of an enthusiastic Chorkie. A Chorkie, in case you’re not quite up to speed with your canine crossbreeds, is a mixture of a chihuahua and a Yorkshire Terrier, and while my friend K— busies herself elsewhere I am looking after this hound.

This falls squarely into the category of Things I Never Thought I’d Do. I’m a cat person, taking my cue from their idleness, cruelty and beauty. Dogs, with their loyalty, their enthusiasm and their barking, are all a little too much for me, even after the first drink of the day. But the dog is here, and I am in loco parentis, and it is up to me to make sure that she is looked after and entertained, and that there is no repetition of the unfortunate accident that occurred outside my housemate’s room, and which needed several tissues and a little poo baggie to make good.

As it is, the dog thinks I am the bee’s knees. To give you an idea of how beeskneesian it finds me, it is licking my feet as I write. “All right,” I feel like saying to her, “you don’t have to go that far.”

But it’s quite nice to be worshipped like this, I have decided. She has also fallen in love with the Hovel, and literally writhes with delight at the stinky cushions on the sofa. Named after Trude Fleischmann, the lesbian erotic photographer of the Twenties, Thirties and Forties, she has decided, with admirable open-mindedness, that I am the Leader of the Pack. When I take the lead, K— gets a little vexed.

“She’s walking on a loose lead, with you,” K— says. “She never does that when I’m walking her.” I don’t even know what that means, until I have a think and work it out.

“She’s also walking to heel with you,” K— adds, and once again I have to join a couple of mental dots before the mists part. It would appear that when it comes to dogs, I have a natural competence and authority, qualities I had never, not even in my most deranged flights of self-love, considered myself to possess in any measurable quantity at all.

And golly, does having a dog change the relationship the British urban flâneur has with the rest of society. The British, especially those living south of Watford, and above all those in London, do not recognise other people’s existence unless they want to buy something off them or stop them standing on the left of the sodding escalator, you idiot. This all changes when you have a dog with you. You are now fair game for any dog-fancier to come up to you and ask the most personal questions about the dog’s history and genealogy. They don’t even have to have a dog of their own; but if you do, you are obliged by law to stop and exchange dog facts.

My knowledge of dog facts is scant, extending not much further beyond them having a leg at each corner and chasing squirrels, so I leave the talking to K—, who, being a friendly sort who could probably talk dog all day long if pressed, is quite happy to do that. I look meanwhile in a kind of blank wonder at whichever brand of dog we’ve just encountered, and marvel not only at the incredible diversity of dog that abounds in the world, but at a realisation that had hitherto escaped me: almost half of London seems to have one.

And here’s the really interesting thing. When I have the leash, the city looks at me another way. And, specifically, the young women of the city. Having reached the age when one ceases to be visible to any member of the opposite sex under 30, I find, all of a sudden, that I exist again. Women of improbable beauty look at Trude, who looks far more Yorkie than chihuahua, apart from when she does that thing with the ears, and then look at me, and smile unguardedly and unironically, signalling to me that they have decided I am a Good Thing and would, were their schedules not preventing them, like to chat and get to know me and the dog a bit better.

I wonder at first if I am imagining this. I mention it to K—.

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s a thing. My friend P-J regularly borrows her when he wants to get laid. He reckons he’s had about 12 shags thanks to her in the last six months. The problems only arise when they come back again and notice the dog isn’t there.”

I do the maths. Twelve in six months! That’s one a fortnight. An idea begins to form in my mind. I suppose you don’t have to be a rocket scientist to work out what it is. But no. I couldn’t. Could I?

Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism