I went down to see Doc yesterday.
He wanted to see me early for some reason, before I had a chance to load up with sugar and nicotine so I set the alarm for the ungodly hour of half eight. Jayzus but there were times not so long ago when I’d just be going to bed at that hour.
As chance would have it, the postman rang to doorbell, so I presented myself to receive whatever he had to proffer. He looked me up and down and sniggered. “That’s the first time I’ve seen you with your clothes on” says he. I suppose he’s right as any other time he calls I’m usually fast asleep and ergo divested of garments.
Anyhows I arrived down at Doc’s and joined the crowd of old farts in the waiting room. Doc stuck his head around the door, ignored all the old farts and invited me into his “surgery” [i.e. the back storeroom]. Normally at this stage he asks how I am, and normally I inform him that he’s the one who is supposed to tell me. This time he lust looked me up and down.
“Jayzus but you look terrible!” says he. “Wassup?”
“Plenty” says I. “The car is costing me an arm and a leg; the front gate still jams; the sewer is backing up again and I have to spend a fortune getting the roof fixed.”
“No” says he. “Wassup with you. Your health, not your fucking problems.”
“Take a holiday. Get a bit of sunshine and warmth into those bones. You need a break.”
“Can you prescribe a holiday on health grounds?”
“Fell fuck off then, putting fanciful ideas in my head, especially as I have been dreaming of nice sunny days and enjoying confit de canard in the sunshine in Sarlat-la-Canéda. I can’t fucking afford it and you go rubbing salt into the wound.”
He hastily changed the subject and stuck a needle in my arm for some blood samples. I squirted blood all over the place. Serves him right.
That visit really pissed me off. It’s bad enough dreaming about sunny holidays but to be actually told to take one is going too far.
I’ll just have to go back to my jigsaws and dream of Sarlat.