I paid a visit to Doc yesterday.
Please don’t panic. Nothing to worry about. It was just a 10,000 mile service as it were.
It was the usual routine visit – blood pressure [fine], listen to the heart [still beating], lungs [could inflate a barrage balloon] and the usual other tests to make sure I’ll live until the next service.
I mentioned in passing that I was putting on weight.
Now this concern of mine is fuck all to do with the Nanny State’s determination to have us all looking like Kate Moss [mind you – if they want to make Herself look like Kate Moss……..?]. It is a simple matter of economics. If I put on weight then I can’t fit into all my trousers as they’d all be too tight and I’d have to go out and buy a new lot. I fucking hate shopping for clothes.
A few months ago I had mentioned that I thought I was putting on a couple of pounds and he diagnosed it as a pregnancy. He couldn’t stand by that diagnosis now though, as I would be well past my due date and the old stomach hadn’t expanded that much anyway.
He scratched his chin.
“Do you smoke?” he asked eventually.
Now I wasn’t going to fall for that one. I knew he was just on the scrounge for a fill of tobacco so I told him that no, I never smoked in my life.
“Do you drink much?”
“I’d have to think about that” I replied.
“It’s a simple question” says he. “When did you last have a drink?”
“About a year ago,” I told him.
He was happy with that and decided my weight gain was probably down a dose of Bovine Colic and that I should eat less grass.
And that in a nutshell is why I get on so well with Doc. He never mixes business with his social life, or even his social life with business. The fact that the two of us had necked a few pints the night before is irrelevant in the surgery. What happens in the pub is sacrosanct and confidential.
No wonder they call him Doc Jekyll behind his back.