Hit the doctor this morning

What I mean is that I visited the doctor this morning. There, no bodily contact involved.

    I was summoned a few weeks ago for my annual visit but couldn't (get the time off work, be bothered), but as I go so rarely I would get struck, stricken or just basically removed from their books if I don't go at least once a year.

    'So, what did you want to talk about,' enquired the cheerful but clearly harried man.

    'I didn't want to talk about anything, I was ordered to come,' said I glibly.

    Clearly debating whether to stab me with a suspiciously lurking syringe on his desk or throw me out, he glanced at my notes.

    'Oh, yes, your cholesterol.'

    I was still enjoying the remnants of my own eloquence and came up with something to say that distinguished me from one of the herd.

    'I don't believe in it. I'm still as fit as I was in the Marines (a bare faced lie, even though I am still pretty fit for my age) and those statins you gave me three years ago made my joints hurt and left me with the memory of an amoeba.'

    'So you stopped taking them,' he frowned in that demi-god like way doctors reserve for their most stupid patients. 'You do remember that your level was nearly ten before I gave them to you in the first place.' Determined not to be outdone by some who, admittedly did quite a few years training before seeing me, I continued.

    'Yes, but since then I began eating all the stuff I loath, like vegetables, and fruit, (I carried on, grimacing at the thought of food I truly despise, 'and fruit juice and cod liver oil, and Benecol and...' Clearly seeing me as a lost cause he raised a hand.

    'Will you try a brand new statin? And if in two weeks your joints haven't seized up and you can still remember your name we'll try them for a while longer.' He was still eyeing the syringe so I decided to humour the man. At least I'd done my duty and retained the (free) services of the National Health Service for another twelve months.

    I left wishing that I'd been able to talk to him about the nearly healed chemical burns on my hands that are driving me insane with their itching, but said NHS only permits the doctor to talk about one ailment per visit, so it's imperative to delineate what's the most important before one goes in. If I'd told him about my hands then I would have had to make another appointment for the cholesterol thing.

    If a man of my age can still run five miles in forty minutes and blow up a moderately sized party balloon in one breath I refuse to believe I'm at death's door.