So I look up and another twelve days appear to have gone by just like that. (Doffs fez and does the Tommy Cooper wobbly hands thing for emphasis).
I dunno where they went I’m sure. Ok at some point in those days yours truly got “another year older and deeper in debt” as the songsmith might have it, but the boat wasn’t actually pushed out that much so there’s no excuse there. It must be one of those Agatha Christie type lost week thingies, only without the mysterious hotel in Harrogate or wherever it was supposed to have been. Who knows. Perhaps in years to come there will be a great “Dr J’s Lost April” urban myth. Or perhaps not.
Moving on, we have noticed, here at the Ambridge Surgery, that there was a definite upsurge in “The Madnesses” over the past couple of weeks. Literally two of our long term but stable psychotic patients chose this past hot spell to drop a few of their collective marbles of their respective trays, to end up in need of hospitalizing. And there’s a whole couple of others who are simmering under.
Suddenly Ambridge begins to feel like New York (only with fewer bagels and homicides). Temperatures soaring into the thirties and all at once the entire population gets the seven year itch, cracks up or otherwise goes to pot, and we poor soles, we few, we happy few, we band of brothers, and, increasingly, sisters, are here manning the barricades and manfully (er – and womanfully) picking up the pieces.
Thank heaven for the past day’s rains. Perhaps that will help dampen their ardour and we can get back to proper General Practice*. In the meantime I’m off to buy an almanack just in case. After all it might pay me to know when the next full moon is due. And whilst I’m at it I think I might invest in some garlic and silver bullets.
* you know the sort of thing, peering into sore throats, doling out verruca creams and prying into peoples sex lives….