In comes Helen Archer.
"The Hospital gave me a note for two weeks after my investigation."
*?* (readers will recognise the trademark Dr J quizzical expression).
"So that was two weeks ago and I need another."
Right, says I, and what's been the matter.
"Well my voice is still a bit hoarse and I work on a till."
So you're not actually ill then?
"Well no, but my voice is hoarse and I talk a lot..."
As indeed it is, and she does. But, says I again, can't your employer find you something to do away from the till 'till your voice comes back.
"?" (She turns the tables and goes quizzical herself- unless it's constipation.)
Turns out she hasn't asked them, what with being hoarse and all.
So we resolved that I would not "sign her off" and she would get back to them to find an alternative position-- or perhaps woman the till a little more quietly for a bit. I suppose she will have a problem yelling for the supervisor to enquire about the price of fish, but I know the store she works in has those flashing light thingies and buzzers to attract the supervisor's attention so I really don't see how a hoarse voice counts as a total disability preventing her working.
Still at the end of this vignette I am left with the impression that I am a greater scourge to mankind than Dr Mengelle.
So gaze upon my works ye mortals and despair. I know I do sometimes.