Part 1: That Feeling You Get…
Martin was having a very bad day.
He'd woken up on the floor of his kitchen, still dressed, and with a pounding headache. This was most unlike him. To make matters worse, that shaggy mutt was curled up there with him. Really, why was it so attached to the one person in the village that despised it?
Things only went downhill from there. He staggered to his feet, his grey worsted jacket covered with dog hair, and managed to spill red wine on himself, and all just as the surgery reception was filling up for the day. He forgot to duck in the hallway and whacked his head hard on the lintel, and he yelped agonizingly, unable to contain himself, knowing everyone in reception could hear his humiliation, not to mention it didn't help his headache one bit.
It looked to be a busy day, every punter in Portwenn had managed to come down with some ache or pain or other and was waiting to see him for it. Honestly these people couldn't tie their own shoes without getting a splinter and then getting an infection from it.
He strode into reception, trying to maintain some dignity, and announced, "Surgery will be running a little late this morning," but they all chuckled as he bolted up the stairs. He quickly brushed his teeth, changed his clothes, and swallowed a couple of paracetamol with a long drink of water. No time for breakfast, not that he stomach anything anyway.
On top of everything, from the comments he could overhear he strongly suspected Pauline had documented his kitchen floor nap with her mobile camera and sent the photo around.
First up in surgery was Elaine Alderman, a 30-ish blonde who sounded sincere enough about her symptoms. "I do feel my glands are up so I thought maybe you'd have a look," she said.
Martin told her to open up, but she pulled away as he got near. "I'm sorry I can't see if you turn your head away," he said.
"I'm sorry, it's just… have you been drinking?" she said, cringing.
Then came Bert Large.
"Doc," he said, "you know that feeling you get when you've got a headache coming, you know just behind the eyes, and it's here too, and then it spreads, throbs, you know, like a scaled up old boiler, but it's not just there, it's also in your stomach, and then your water works, and you've got to run to the toilet?"
"How long have you had this feeling?" asked Martin.
"Oh not me, Doc. No, you. Who's the lucky tippler then? Is it someone we know or as rumoured is it just you and your canine friend Woof Woof?"
Now Martin was really annoyed. "Get out!" he shouted.
"Hair of the dog, Doc?" Bert said, offering him a flask.
"Get out Bert!"
Bert went out to reception. "He's not in the mood," he mumbled to the others.
"That's right, I'm not in the mood," Martin snarled. "If any of you are offended by the fact that last night I drank wine, or you've come to waste my time with infantile jokes, then you can bugger off. Next patient please Pauline!"
Bert took off with Al, but he couldn't resist a parting shot: "Come on, let sleeping dogs lie, eh?"
"That's not funny!"
They all laughed anyway.
Back in his office with door closed, Martin did a quick rinse with some mouthwash and called for the next patient.
To be continued...