To the doctor this morning:

“Well, Mr Gottlegog,” he said, “It looks like we’ve made a mistake in your diagnosis. You’re not diabetic at all, in fact you’ve got a rare condition that can only be cured by eating vast amounts of chocolate”.

You saw right through that didn’t you? Yes, I made it up. But he WAS pretty pleased with me, my blood pressure is responding well to treatment and some other symptoms I’ve been a bit concerned about are just known side effects of the blood pressure pills, and will wear off once my body gets used to the medication. He was also pleased with the amount of weight I’ve lost (1½ stone compared to my mid-January weight), and doesn’t want to see me again until after my blood tests in mid-June.

But isn’t it a bit worrying when the doctor tells you to make an appointment, and when you go to see him he says “And what can I do for you?”. One day I’m going to say, “Dunno doc, it was you who wanted to see me. have you been feeling a bit peaky lately?”. The trouble is, of course, the medical profession ultimately have us in their power – if I upset him, how do I know he’s not going to send me off to a specialist with a note saying:
“Dear Aubrey
The bearer of this note, Mr Gottlegog, has been appointed to the position of Health and Safety Eunuch to the Sheik of Araby: Please make the necessary adjustments and charge him double.
Golf Friday?

OK, I’m sure my doctor wouldn’t do that really, but I don’t think I’ll risk it.

1OK, I’ll admit I nicked that joke off Ronnie Corbett

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