The Doctor will see you now…

StellaCat is such a tart.  She just luuurves to be scratched on the top side of her back, just in front of her tail, and will stick her bum up high in the air to ensure that her skin & fur are stretched as wide as possible.  These days she also loves to be brushed – something she would not tolerate for even a moment not so long ago….  Now, however, you must not stop once you have started; her ultimate indulgence is to be groomed with her wirey implement of torture whilst eating her dinner.  The way she offers up various parts of her anatomy for brushing, rubbing or scratching is brazen. I think she’s half canine, half feline.

Today I had the unusual experience of going to the doctor to discuss my toenail clipping with him.   Pause.  Digest how strange that last sentence is.  So bizarre – who would want to do that?  I was already confused because I had previously been to a fully qualified podiatrist to get a mere pedicure.  Admittedly there was no polish included here, it felt more medical than aesthetic in nature – like a good sanding down with a tool that made a noise not unlike a dentist’s drill but this is someone who measures the length of bones and judges spines for symmetry and makes highly specialised insoles for a living.  Thus my confusion.   Without wanting to make you yawn lumps, it should suffice when I tell you that the podiatrist decided to keep one of my clippings to send off to the lab.  Yeucchhhh!  (It actually made a ‘chink’ sound when she dropped it into the vial.  Just remembering that makes me heave.)  I assume that’s what she did with it anyway, rather than chewing on it or adding it to her private collection of clients’ clippings.  Barf.  I wish I hadn’t typed that.

The outcome of all of this drama was that I received a call telling me to go to the doctor as I needed a prescription to erm… clear up the little problem that had caused my toe to go a funny shape.  Enough detail, I think, for those of you with delicate stomachs.

Two weeks after the shearing incident, which was today,  I found myself sitting in the waiting room, playing host to flippant thoughts along the lines of:

‘Oh crap, what am I here for again?  Oh yes, toe.  Gosh, what a waste of this poor doctor’s time.  Quick, think up something else to make the visit worthwhile…’

Which  meant that by the time I made it into his consulting room, and had asked for and received my prescription, all of which took 30 seconds,  I had a trump card up my sleeve which, when I spoke it out loud sounded ridiculously foolish and trivial.  Dear Reader, can you believe I asked him if he could slice a few of my moles off while I was there.  Not the larger, slightly dangerous-looking ones that I make every effort to keep out of the sun but the small wibbly ones that have a habit of catching on my bra strap, knicker elastic or necklace.  I half expected him to send me back to the podiatrist, who was, after all, so adept at removing small, superfluous parts of me but then the phone rang and he sat for five minutes -no exaggeration, I swear – going:

‘Ja….Nee…..Nee….Nee…Ja….Ja …Ja…. Ja… NEE!’  etcetera.  You get the picture.  I wondered whether the phone call was a plant, put through as a result of a signal from him to the receptionist (his wife) just for a laugh:

‘Oh god, it’s Mrs Miggins with her non-existent problems.  Her complaints are so DULL.  Give me 30 seconds then ring through and tell me what you’d like me to do to you in bed tonight….‘

Immediately after hanging up, he told me that he’d had a good think about my moles and thought I should go to the dermatologist to have them excised.  Said Dermo would be able to check the dodgy ones at the same time.  Now, of course,  I’m fully expecting the waggly nevi to drop off before I can get an appointment and the funny-looking ones to revert to being smooth, even-edged and monochrome.

Last time I went to see the good doctor I thought I had an infected tongue.  It was sore, felt dry and didn’t seem to fit properly in my mouth.  He took a good look (I didn’t feel at all comfortable sitting in his office sticking my tongue out at him) and then got his torch out and shone it down my throat.  His conclusion was simple:

‘It’s nothing.  Perhaps you had a minor irritation but it’s gone now.’

Irritation?  IRRITATION????  Too bloody right I’m irritated.  Why do I always have silly non-existent complaints such as an infected toenail clipping and an irritable tongue??   I’ve never even heard of that.

Gimme a common old common cold, an itchy rash and a dose of back ache.  Harrumph.

P.S.  It’s no good, I cannot leave it like that.  I have to add this disclaimer:

I am aware we are extremely fortunate in that we have been given good health.  That is worth more to me than all the riches in the world.   As you may have surmised from this post, I am a moley person.  I realise, after discovering the existence of a condition called Giant Congenital Nevi, that a few moles more than the average person is definitely not something to complain about.