At every stage of the procedure I was attended to, spoken nicely to, asked questions of, and skewered painlessly by a whole battery of young women sporting various forms of medical-style livery, including my very own favourite: scrubs. The most notable of them was wearing a set in a fetching shade of light claret, and if there’s one thing that makes a trip to a hospital worth the effort, it’s a nicely constructed young nursing type clad in light claret scrubs. In fact, I would go so far as to say that scrubs are so damn sexy that I wonder why young women don't go to nightclubs in them. They’d never be short of a date, especially if they were light claret ones. What made the day all the more worthwhile, however, was being able to indulge in lots of (inoffensive) banter with my favourite form of human.
(It might surprise you to know that I’m quite good at banter when the mood takes me. It’s my third best skill after writing and annoying people.)
* * *
But the banter didn’t start there; it started earlier when I was out for a walk. As I was coming close to my house I saw approaching me a group of five middle aged women, not wearing scrubs but proper, scruffy walking gear. The leader smiled at me and offered a hearty ‘good morning.’ ‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ I found myself replying, ‘a veritable monstrous regiment of women. How exciting.’
A panic attack soon followed. It occurred to me that they might have been out on a lunchtime ramble from some nearby feminist convention. ‘They might be about to start steaming’, I thought, ‘and giving off noxious fumes. They might start hurling acorns at me, causing me to seek refuge in an adjacent hedge which will be very prickly and therefore injurious to my bodily condition.’
But the goddess smiled on me, and the five women merely laughed. So that was today’s lesson learned: If you encounter five middle aged women perambulating the countryside in walking gear, don’t mention the suffragettes. I did, but I think I got away with it.
* * *
The one regrettable part of the day was failing to wave or even smile at the Lady B’s Honourable Sister when she drove past me in the lane. I simply didn’t realise who it was because I haven’t yet got used to the fact that she’s the one who drives the white Volvo. I was really quite mortified, I can tell you, and nearly twelve hours later I still haven’t got over it. I’m hoping that scotch and sleep will assist me in the effort.
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