I braved the cold this morning and went to see the doctor; I’m still coughing up gunk from my Swiss flu.
It was all very efficient. I was in the examining room within minutes of my allotted time. After disrobing myself of great coat, ski hat and thick red wooly scarf, she listened carefully to my breathing, asked me questions about the colour of the gunk (as if I'd know anything about the colour of anything) and promptly prescribed some magic pills. I swiftly re-robed and wandered back into the fresh morning air.
Goodness it's cold. There was a decent-ish snowfall last night, but this morning I think the clouds are sulking ominously until everything warms up a little.
Into the car. A quick drive around the corner in search of a parking space. Then the inevitable wait as the chemist serves the elderly infirm of Calverley who have descended in droves ahead of me out of pure spite.
Eventually it's my turn.
The chemist (smart, Asian, looked about thirteen) handed over my goody bag with the magic pills and said – “Ooh, these are like, you know, still really new and we ask people to tell us if they work or if they give you massive abdominal cramps & headaches; can I get you to put your phone number down so we can check up on you?”
Which filled me with confidence. I must have looked a bit shocked, cos he added:
“I mean, they’re great. They usually work really well.”
I signed on the dotted line and gave him my mobile number.
So far so good.
Of course, I don’t take the first one till tonight.