On headaches

On headaches

I went to the doctor recently, complaining of a series of raging headaches. Awful, awful headaches that twanged up the back of my head, round the inside of my skull and out the sides like I was trying to grow an extra set of eyes.

The doc asked me a few questions, tilted my head this way and that, and rounded off his examination by poking me in the ear with a knitting needle.

"Well, Mr Duck," he said at length ("Weeeeelllll Miiiiissssterrrr Duuuucccck"), "I think I know what your problem is."

I was - knitting needle notwithstanding - all ears.

"You have what is known in the medical profession as a 'headache'."

Ten years at medical school making bowling balls out of the finest fresh cadavers for THAT.

"All is not lost," he said, writing down a prescription, "this will give you what you need. Come back and see me if you encounter any problems."

I looked down at the piece of paper he had prodded in my direction. A piece of paper that would cost me £6.85 at Asda Pharmacy for a packet of paracetamol. It read, in the spider handwriting that all GPs spend many years perfecting:

"Bosoms. 1000mg. Take FOUR two times daily."

My trip to the surgery would not be a complete waste after all.

Two days later:

"Well, Doctor. It's this prescription you gave me."

"What about it?"

"I appear to have developed an allergic reaction."

"Oh. I see. Red marks all over your cheeks. That is unfortunate. Can I see the prescription again?"

I showed him.

"Bosoms. 1000mg. Take FOUR two times daily."

"Ah," he said at length ("Aaaaaaaaaahhhh"), "there appears to have been a bit of a mix-up."

He handed the scrap of paper back to me, to find it hurriedly amended to read:

"Bosoms. 1000mg. Take TWO four times daily."

Well, that explains the red face. You try walking into Boots the Chemist and ask the not unattractive Polish pharmacist if she's got a sister, and see how far you get.

The Doc looked me in the eye.

"You won't tell the General Medical Council, will you? Not after what happened last time..."

He left the sentence hanging, like the remnants of his career.

"I... err..."

"Take my receptionist. Miss Nipples. She's got a cracking pair. Please."

"I... err..."

"No charge, no questions asked. We can put this on my BUPA."

Feeling some semblance of pity, and latterly a cracking pair, I agreed.

Five days later, and I've still got the headaches. But who cares?


On any other business

I appear to be in a state of war with Zoe at My Boyfriend Is A Twat. Again.

It appears that our manly Shed-tastic Facebook group has rather more members that Madame Zed's own girly group, and I am to blame.

Feh, I say, rising above the unpleasantness - FEH! Let it go on record that I still possess a picture of the author's bottom. In fact: this one.