A VISIT TO THE DOCTOR

 I was up bright and early this morning as I had an appointment with the doctor to establish the cause of certain pain in my lower back (read bum). 

After much poking and prodding, the doctor said "Can you PLEASE stop playing with my medical equipment and lie down on the bed?"  In my own defence, I argued that I had once entertained dreams of becoming a medical practitioner and so had a professional right to examine the various devices which were lying about.  The doctor, a stern-looking woman who would not have been out of place in a high security prison ward, was not amused.  She proceeded to examine me by pulling and pushing my body into various positions which I was sure left me qualified to apply to a circus as a contortionist.   Finally, she informed me that I have sciatica, pain affecting the back, hip, and outer side of the leg, caused by compression of a spinal nerve root in the lower back, often owing to degeneration of an intervertebral disk.  (Actually, I just looked that up because I wasn't sure how to spell it.)

"Is it fatal?," I asked, alarmed, because, to be honest, I was hoping I had something more dramatic-
sounding that I could elicit sympathy for.  A sore bum just wasn't going to cut it.  "I read that a pain in your bum is the first indication that you have mere weeks to live," I pleaded.  "Where did you read that?," she asked.  "Hypochondriacs monthly," I said.  "I have a subscription."  She advised that I ice the area and do gentle stretches.  I said "It is my medical opinion that the application of two leeches before bed might be in order."  She looked at me with an expression that I can only describe as frosty.  I thought she was going to hit me.  "Get out!," she said, pointing a perfectly manicured finger towards the door.

I backed out into the waiting room, still wearing that little backless number that the medical profession appears to be quite fond of, my bum now clearly visible to the throng of patients sitting there.  I decided not to waste the opportunity of a live audience so I said "It doesn't look good, guys".  As all of us were gathered in a group hug singing 'Nearer My God To Thee', I heard the doctor's voice screaming "I thought I told you to get out!"  "What about my clothes?" I yelled.  The door opened and my clothing was thrown, THROWN, out and the door was slammed in my face.  "Right!" I said, to the assembled masses.  "I'm keeping this little dress thingy!"  And I marched out onto the street, mooning everyone I met.