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Wednesday, February 05, 2014

I was doing a clinic yesterday in a health centre which shall remain nameless (mainly because I have short-term memory problems), and one of my patients was a lady in her late eighties, who informed me that her GP keeps telling her off for climbing up stepladders and standing on tables. Apparently it's not a wise thing to do at her age. Although if it results in men sticking dollar bills in her garter, she might not need her winter fuel allowance.

Fortunately I'm not a doctor, so I told her she can come round and put up my Christmas decorations any time. Although preferably in December. Then I sent her outside while the eye drops worked. When I called her back in, she was busy furiously writing in one of the patient feedback books which are dotted around the clinic, and having kept me waiting for a minute while she finished her essay, she walked back in and whispered "I've given you a good write-up..."

Naturally, once I know the feedback's committed to paper, I can be as rude and discourteous as I like, so I hurried her straight through the photos, shoved her out the door, and popped down the corridor to see what she'd written. It transpired that she'd praised my level of attention (so I can rule out ADHD) and said I provided "very good care", before slagging off the receptionist for not smiling enough. Tragically, however, she hadn't said who I was or what she'd been there for, so with a hundred other clinics taking place (the NHS is nothing if not overstretched) (and I'm inflating the figures), those comments could apply to anyone. I was tempted to copy her handwriting and put my name at the top, but in the end I decided to remain anonymous. Although I'm happy to blow my own trumpet. And if anyone asks, it was me.

In other news, now that Chloe's moved up to the great litter tray in the sky, I thought the days of finding mice lying around the flat in odd places were well and truly over. Unfortunately, having tired of chucking electronic items down the toilet, Toby is now doing his best to follow in Chloe's illustrious pawprints by nicking our wireless computer mouse. He walked off with it yesterday morning, and despite checking the bins, toilet and Wellington boots, we've so far failed to locate it. It was particularly heartbreaking as it meant that Lisa was unable to play Candy Crush until I came home and dug out a spare one.

In a possible act of divine retribution, however, Toby appears to have been punished for his wanton thieving by being struck down by a mystery illness. Within a couple of hours of losing the mouse, the boy developed a temperature and stopped eating. So it's possible he swallowed it and has mercury poisoning. By the time I got home from work yesterday, he was hot, miserable and appeared to be turning into a panda, with deathly pale skin and dark rings around his eyes.

As for the rest of us, Lisa and I are currently feeling rough, exhausted and headachey, but we've got two kids, so that's pretty normal. The good news is that we're all set for a bit of miraculous healing, as Amelie went to school today with her Prayer Table paraphernalia. She's not setting the table until tomorrow (and going by past form, she'll get the knives and forks the wrong way round), but she's taken in a Bible, a cross and a candle. So we'll either get a fervent prayer of healing, or a bonfire the Klan would be proud of.


Phil's Mum said...

It's difficult to be cross with a little boy who is obviously feeling unwell! (Have you looked behind the dolls' house and under the sofas?)