Should've known better...

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I had to go back to the blooming doctor's yesterday again. This is something I really look forward to for the following reasons:

1. Half an hour to eventually get through to the automated answering machine.
2. Having established that I need an appointment, I am put on hold.
3. Every now and again, a lady's voice tells me 'that the surgery is experiencing unusually high levels of traffic (this is the case whatever time you call so holds no credence whatsoever).
4. Same lady comes on to tell me 'your call is important to us'.  Yeah right....
5. Get through to the receptionist who I picture in jack boots with swastikas on her drawers.
6. Ask for appointment (I try to be helpful by saying I don't care who I see and I don't care what time).
7. Appointment allocated after deep sighs and huffing
8. Receptionist then asks what's wrong with me...
9. One of these days I am going to say that I have self diagnosed myself with Bubonic Plague having looked up my symptoms on checkmysymptoms.com
10. Settled for the truth yesterday...painful knee

So I find myself sitting in the surgery looking at a girl not much older than daughter number two. Having given her a complete rundown of the symptoms, she looks me in the eye, and asks me, 'What do you think it is?'  'Well excuse me, but having spent almost half your short life in medical school, I would have thought you were better qualified to know', was what I wanted to say, but I settled on, 'I think it's my arthritis playing up again'.

After a most thorough examination (this involved pressing on my knee and saying, 'Here? Here?' quite a few times) she said that she needed to take advice from a colleague (possibly one who's been doctoring a little longer perchance?) So along comes one of the senior doctors who takes another look.  'I think you've damaged a ligament', she said. 'What have you been up to?'

Sheepishly, I looked up and said that maybe it has something to do with the six hours of dancing I did in that club in Ibiza over the summer. She then raised one eyebrow and dealt me a killer blow. 

'And how old are you?'

'53'.

'Possibly old enough to know better then'.

'But it was Fatboy Slim', I said, keen to get back into her good books.

'Never heard of them', she said.  'Now go home and get some ice on it and try to take it easy for a few days. Remember, you're no spring chicken anymore, and slow and steady is far better than romping home first over the finish line'.

Duly admonished, I headed back to the car, clutching a printout which the junior doctor had given me.  This showed lots of exercises I could do to help my arthritis in my knees.

Talk about rubbing it in... 


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