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Decades ago I was drinking with Jock, a well-known surgeon in our town. He was a source of colourful tales, which he relayed with a blunt directness. I was told that he’d been a good friend of my grandfather, the local Labour MP, and that they’d argue about politics on the train down to London. Whenever Jock opened up a patient and found a tumour that was beyond even his skill, he became visibly and audibly distressed: “Sew ’im up, sew ’im up!” There you have it: a profession whose members, a...

“Take Care of the Bowels and the Brains Will Take Care of Themselves”: Scotland’s Doctor-Writers