She looked at me with sympathy, the kind doctor with the soft tones, and she hid well the horror of having to look at my ten-pin leg and dire case of foot knack, once again.
December was the last time that she sent me for an x-ray I didn't end up needing, and now I was back with vague instructions about how I've had a headache in my paw for the last four days, and a dreadful dose of crapness to go with it.
"Describe the crapness," she didn't quite say.
"Well, Davros made a funny in work yesterday and I barely raised a chuckle, while I've been cracking old man noises in reaching for a glass of water. I nodded off briefly at my desk and my head's been a-rattling like a sailor's sock."
"A sailor's sock? I don't get it," said the doctor.
"No, I don't either, that's just the problem. Whatever the fuck this is, well, it's making me dole out the bad analogies like Ryan Tubridy on a slice of Calvita."
"Open your mouth and say 'aaaaah...'"
I said 'uuuuh' by mistake.
"I'm just going to have a look inside your ears."
"What for?" I asked. "You'll find neither money nor sense in there. It's like an empty cup of Brian Dennehy."
"There's a bit of redness in your right ear but how that corresponds with your foot ouch is anyone's guess. Your throat's a bit red too. Blood pressure and temperature are normal, mind you."
"So it's most likely a viral infection. Keep taking paracetamol, drink plenty more water and give me fifty five of your hard-snoozed europounds, please."
"Oh very well but I'll have you know this is just like the time Jerry Seinfeld played Snap on his own in my granny's kitchen. Nobody wins."
"I don't quite follow."
"Goodbye doctor. I'll see you in time for Christmas."