I had to give Gran a lift to the doctor’s today. I went in with her because she reckons that the locum is probably a pervert and will ask her to get onto the couch and try to get her to take her bloomers off. She says there’s probably a very good reason why he can’t get his own practice.
The doctor was a very nice looking Polish guy, with the sort of husky voice that could melt the knickers off a nun. He can get me onto the couch any time he wants. He wouldn’t even have to ask me to remove my pants. I wouldn’t be wearing any.
Anyway, drool over, back to the story. He asked Gran what was wrong.
She said. ‘My body hurts wherever I touch it.’
‘How strange,’ said the doctor. ‘Show me.’
Gran dug her finger into her left shoulder. ‘OW,’ she cried.
The doctor frowned and asked her to prod somewhere else, so Gran prodded her right boob. ‘OW,’ she cried again.
It was the same everywhere she touched, her knee, her wrist, everywhere. I was beginning to get a bit worried to be honest, but then the doctor prodded her on the knee and she didn’t flinch. He prodded her on the shoulder but Gran didn’t react.
The doctor looked me straight in the boobs and smiled a wistful smile.
‘She’s broken her finger,’ he said.
Gran refused the offer of a bandage and said she’d stick her finger into a stool when she got home. The doctor said he didn’t think that was very hygienic but Gran said she had four stools in her bedside drawer and two of them were quite new. The doctor looked at me and shuddered. I had to explain that she didn’t mean that kind of stool.
Tell you what, Emma, I think I’m going to change doctors, I feel a dose of thrush coming on.
Catch you later.
Tracy the itchy.