Strange Doctor Encounters

I have a strange karmic relationship with the medical profession, and I seemed to have passed it on to my son by proxy.  Whenever I'm ill, by the time I've finally and begrudgingly hauled myself to the Quack's (having put on make-up and dressed carefully so as not to look ill) I'm already feeling better, and by the end of the consultation I can't remember why I went in the first place and pause to place the prescription in the bin on the way out.

Following an illness where he had 38 degrees of fever for one day, B still had a slight sore throat 2 weeks later and complained of being tired.   I peered down his throat with a bicycle lamp and was horrified to see horrible bulging red lumps the size and shape of neurofen caplets coating the back of his throat.  For three days I insisted he gargle with cider vinegar, spray propolis at the back of this throat, take 500mg vitamin C and Vitamin D, drink Kombucha suck echinacea and grapefruit seed oil pastilles at all times in between,  but on the 3rd day the blobs were as bad as ever and I realised I would have to take B to meet our Doctor, 'Mad Dog' Bastille, because if it was untreated strep throat all sorts of complications might set in.

'Mad Dog' Bastille works from home, his deaf tom-cat sleeps on the windowsill inside the front door and sometimes does the rounds in the waiting room, and his wife shouts 'Bonjour' from the kitchen and sometimes interrupts consultations for domestic reasons.  The chemist tells me 'he is at least 14 years past retirement' and sends her antiquated prescriptions,  but I like him and choose him above so called competent modern doctors who are not deaf and forgetful.  He never remembers my name, or anything about my past (something which I appreciate) he has large comforting ears, a benign sense of humour, always has a tale to tell and his latest theory to share.  I always feel better once I've seen him, and often leave with tears of laughter streaming down my face.

While I parked the car B went in and by the time I got to the consultation room, he was Cured.  'Tell all your friends to come and see Dr Bastille' said Dr Bastille as he wheezed his way back to his chair,  'Instant cure guaranteed!".    I huffed and puffed and disbelieved this so much that Dr B passed me his lamp (one designed for peering in ears) and invited me to look for myself.  Apart from a few red marks, everything had disappeared.  We had a good laugh about this and he said he would write a prescription for a swab and analysis to reassure the mother, suggested that the battery of alternative products may have provoked an allergy, refused to believe that the blobs were there before the products, and moved on to his favourite subjects of conversation;  his eccentric and successful family members, the Revolution (disgraceful) the British Royal Family (hurrah), what B's ambitions were for the future and anything else that sprang to mind until I had to put a halt to it all to go and collect our  English exchange student from school.