I went to see the doctor yesterday.
“Howya, Doc” says I.
“Howya, Grandad. Are ya well?” says he, which is a weird question from a doctor. Is he hoping that I am, or that I’m not?
“Grand.” says I “Just here for the 10,000 mile service.”
So he poked me and prodded me and we talked about this and that. He listened to various parts of me, but not what I was saying. I’m used to that.
Blood pressure – normal. Heart – normal. Lungs – normal [Yup! I can carry on puffing away]. Teeth – none. Hearing – brilliant [apart from the tinnitus]. All in all, he reckons I’m good for a few miles yet.
Then he put on a rubber glove and started talking about Prostates.
Jayzus! I was across the floor and standing splayed with my back to the wall before I knew it. I’m not having anyone poking around there. There are limits to my friendships. How can you greet a bloke in the village when he’s had his finger up your arse?
“Relax” says he. “I’m just going to take some blood.”
He did. About a gallon. It left me feeling quite drained, but I don’t mind.
He asked me then about the Tourist Shooting, and how it was going. It transpired that he wanted to join up. This was great news as this means that the only non member in the village now is the grave digger. He’s too busy to join.
“What about the Hippocratic Oath?” says I.
We pondered this for a few minutes, but we decided it only applied to patients. And by definition, a tourist isn’t a patient. So I signed him up.
We’re going hunting next week.
But I’m going to make damn sure he is some distance away from me when I go squatting in the undergrowth.