Dr.C.J.George FRCS
Some people collect stamps. Others collect antiques. I, apparently, collect legal disputes. By temperament, I suffer from a rare allergy—to injustice. The symptoms are predictable: raised eyebrows, strongly worded letters, and occasionally, a court summons. If something is unfair—be it an employer, a government department, a corporate giant, or a stubborn neighbour—I find it almost medically impossible to let it pass. This habit has earned me two things: a formidable archive of correspondence and a healthy list of enemies. In the early days, I wrote letters with pen and paper, each one carefully drafted and re-drafted like a love letter to justice. Then came my prized Amstrad word processor, which revolutionised my campaign—cut, paste, print, repeat. With the arrival of laptops, email, and the iPad, my grievances became faster, sharper, and much more difficult to ignore. Technology, you see, is a powerful ally for the persistently aggrieved. My initiation into litigation began long before I wore a stethoscope. My father owned a three-storey building facing College Road in Thrissur (then Trichur), leased in 1964 to a hotelier named Kuttan. For five years, rent was paid. Then—like a vanishing magician—payments stopped. My brothers sued. The case travelled through the lower courts and up to the High Court. We lost. The verdict declared our property transaction “benami.” At the time, I was studying medicine in Davangere. On visiting home, I read the judgment repeatedly—less like a son and more like a detective. Something did not add up. A visit to the registration office in Trichur revealed the plot twist: the tenant had allegedly bribed officials to tamper with our property records. Armed with this revelation, we appealed to the Supreme Court of India—and won. The case dragged on for years before eviction was finally secured. By then, I was living overseas. Justice, I learned early, may be blind—but it is also slow, overworked, and fond of adjournments. While working in Nigeria, I discovered that contracts are sometimes treated as decorative literature. When employers fell short of agreed terms, I complained—politely at first, persistently thereafter. In the UK, my battles continued within the National Health Service. Payments for work beyond agreed Unit Medical Time were mysteriously delayed or absent. Fortunately, the British Medical Association stood firmly behind me. After prolonged exchanges, the NHS paid—retrospectively and reluctantly. Did my rebellious streak slow my career progression? Possibly. Hospitals, like elephants, have long memories—especially for doctors who write letters. In London, I founded Prompt Doctor Service, recruiting vetted doctors for NHS hospitals. Business was straightforward: I paid the doctors; hospitals paid me. Contract terms clearly stated that hospitals could not directly employ doctors introduced by my agency without compensation. One hospital did exactly that. The dispute escalated—expert opinions, legal advice, courtroom drama. I took the case to Liverpool Crown Court. Unfortunately, I lost and was ordered to pay substantial legal costs. A costly lesson: righteousness and victory are not identical twins. In the 1990s, I worked for a government body assessing disability claims. The role required determining whether claimants were medically fit for work. One gentleman arrived dramatically limping on crutches. After examination, he walked out—leaving his crutches behind. Miracles do happen, but usually outside examination rooms. Complaints from disappointed claimants were common. However, I was singled out and dismissed. I believed racial discrimination played a role. With BMA support and colleague witnesses, I sued. Before final judgment, management opted for settlement. Sometimes, persistence persuades. Not all battles were against institutions. Some were botanical. In Thrissur, a neighbour’s massive teak tree repeatedly damaged our compound wall. Requests to cut it were ignored. A civil case was filed. Adjournments multiplied. Eventually, I sold the property—litigation included. In Kent, history repeated itself—this time with a towering eucalyptus tree. Sixty to seventy feet tall, shedding bark and resin, casting deep shade, and supporting a creeper that resembled a pirate ship’s sail. Our garden became a moss museum. Appeals to the neighbour failed. The council sympathised but lacked authority. I employed an expert witness and presented video evidence of the tree swaying menacingly in the wind. The court ordered it reduced to fence height. Sunlight returned. So did the grass. Over the years, I have also taken on: Virgin Atlantic for a cancelled London–Mumbai flight (costs awarded). Mitsubishi Motors over a poorly performing car (refunded after expert report). Delayed NHS invoice payments for Prompt Doctor Service (resolved through court orders). A solicitor-landlord threatening excessive exit bills (resolved after a solicitor’s notice). If there were loyalty points for litigation, I might have earned a free appeal by now. Some individuals in positions of authority ignore legitimate concerns—sometimes out of arrogance, sometimes worse. Bullies often retreat only when confronted with someone willing to stand firm. I have learned that problems are best “nipped in the bud.” Left unattended, they grow—rather like eucalyptus trees. Life, in many ways, resembles a poker game: often it is not about the cards you hold, but about who blinks first. These episodes are not boasts but experiences—lessons carved through persistence, expense, and occasional defeat. My approach may not suit everyone. But one day, when you face your own eucalyptus tree—literal or metaphorical—you may remember this: Justice rarely knocks on your door. Sometimes, you must draft a letter, attach evidence, and invite it inA Reluctant Litigant’s Memoir
The First Legal Earthquake: The Trichur Saga
Nigeria, the NHS, and the Price of Principle
The Entrepreneur vs. The Establishment
The Benefits Agency and the Limping Miracle
The Tree Wars: India and Kent
Airlines, Automobiles, and Other Adventures
Why I Fight
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