I was in the surgery this morning. Well, not 'surgery'-I mean the GP. I promised to make my mother an appointment, and as the clock struck 2.30pm, I RAN to the surgery to do so. As I got to the que, I was panting, very heavily, and inconsistently. I slowly regained my breath, and noticed the woman behind me, in her mid-40s, slowly backing off from the que. She was holding a small piece of cloth to her mouth, and looking at me in a frightful, and distasteful manner. This woman had clearly got it into her head that I had some sort of rabid (I was panting like a dog, after all) disease which which hugely contageous' perhaps a rare form of Dog-Flu. Right, I thought. I needed to give her further 'cause for concern'. I am never afraid to embarass myself if it serves a purpose. I therefore began an incessant form of coughing, spewing bits of saliva, and seeming to be suffering from the conditions of the beubonic plague! The woman now looked even more worried. Good. I then began wheezing for breath, pounding my chest a few times as I did so. The woman had now stepped back to the door of the surgery, and was breathing into her hands. Enough, I thought. She had clearly now 'caught' the rare strain of Dog-Flu. I therefore apprpoached the counter, and asked, 'can I book an appointment for my mother, F. Begum please? She's suffering from some pains in her leg?' I am of course, fit as a fiddle, but that woman will clearly be taking every form of medication invented since Penecillin, in order to counter the nauseating effects of Dog-Flu, which she of course caught from me-well, at least she'll convince herself so anyway.
