I had a visit to Doc during the week.
It’s nothing serious – just a general checkup; a sort of 10,000 mile service as it were.
Of course as soon as I walked into the surgery he came up with his usual line. “Howya Grandad! And how are you?” Naturally I replied with my usual cheerful riposte – “I’m fucking great! Why the fuck do you think I’m here?” It’s the same damned routine every time.
For those of you who haven’t met Doc before, I had better explain that he is in fact the local vet, but we all go to him as the real doctor usually isn’t sober enough to stand, let alone do an examination. Because of his training though we do have to be a little cautious. In particular I always refuse a prostate check. I have seen him up to his shoulders up a cow’s backside, and I’ll be damned if he is going to try the same on me.
Leastwise he checked my lungs [no problems at all there], my heart [still pumping], my ears [still have two] and my blood pressure [steadily rising at that stage].
He asked as usual if I still smoked the pipe. I told him to fuck off and buy his own tobacco. I’m not falling for that one again.
He suggested I give up the drink. Again, I told him to piss off. He’s only trying to worm out of all the pints he owes me.
He asked me to walk up and down the surgery a couple of times, which I did. Then he asked me to do a canter followed by a full gallop. Once again I had to remind him I’m not a fucking horse.
These visits to the Doc can be damned confusing at times.
Anyhows, to cut a long story short I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear he has given me a reasonably clean bill of health.
He has suggested though that I take some precautionary medication.
He reckons I have early onset bovine mastitis.