Thursday, September 02, 2004
Carry On Doctor
If your body is meant to be a temple, then I reckon mine's more ancient ruin than gothic splendour, more the weary, seen-it-all rubble of the Acropolis than the thrusting, virile grandeur of Notre Dame. Yet, in spite of all the abuses I've put this crumbling wreck through over the years, I rarely get ill.
Properly ill that is. I catch the odd cold every now and then, and the occasional
I'm not too sure I take doctors that seriously anyway. I'm a firm believer in the body's ability to heal itself, and it's been proven to me many times in the past that there's precious little that a bottle of good red wine and a bowl of chicken soup with barley can't cure.
Earlier this week, however, I had a little "scare" – subsequently shown to be nothing more than acute hypochondria brought upon by some dodgy kebab, and a desire to make myself the centre of attention – and so visited the surgery for the first time in two decades.
Probably fresh out of medical school, my new GP doesn't look old enough to vote yet, and I wonder how her fresh-faced and caring innocence is going to cope with we winos and druggies, sleaze-balls and Strangers of dear old King's Cross. And, as she greased up for an examination of, um, well, let's just say somewhere the sun rarely gets a look-in, she sweetly warned that what she was about to do to me might feel "unusual" and "strange", and maybe even a little "uncomfortable".
And then she wondered why I suddenly got an attack of the Frankie Howerd schoolboy titters. And, poor lamb, I just didn't have the heart to tell her why.