We have moved through eldritch and whispy. Now we are swathed. So swathed the Motorways hereabouts are at a standstill. So the morning drive this morning, bearing in mind that Ambridge High Street is still shut, was even more of an adventure than normal. I felt like the poor herbert in the TA ad from a year or two ago, careening through the woods at night in his Landy as the instructor yells for him to kill the lights and keep going.
But this is ok, because this is the week I know I am untouchable. You see some kind of Christmas magic imbues GPs throughout the land this week, and I am, as are all my colleagues, at my most beatific.
"?" you rightly ask.
I shall ellucidate.
For this week only I have supernatural powers, right up there with the best of them. My very touch can heal. My stethoscope, normaly an humble diagnostic aid, becomes my magic wand, my wizards staff, my shamanic totem....
I know this because my faithful band of worshippers tell me so. They bring me their firstborn children for the laying on of hands*. They deluge me with cards telling me how great I am. I commune with the spirit world.**
Well, alright, really they bring in little Lilly and Freddy, to be "checked", so they wont be ill over Christmas. Still their faith is as touching as it is undeserved, as though my simple scutiny this week can ward off all evil. Would that it were,so. Still a lad can dream, and as you can probably tell, I rather like becoming one of Santa's helpers just for the week.
It's one of the fringe benefits of working for the Elf Service.
* and their second, third, fourth born, yea even unto the seventh generation.
** whereas lady doctors mainly get given sherry.
( This post now appearing at Shinga's excellent edition of Paediatric Grand Rounds mates.)