Sunday 22nd October 2023

The Gay Mother’s doctor’s surgery has been expertly sited on a bleak promontory of a housing estate with full exposure to Atlantic gales from the West and Siberian blasts from the East. On Wednesday it was both. The advantage is that if the elderly are blown down trying to get to the doctor’s, the doctor will be there to attend to them. So from the safety point of view it makes perfect sense.

That’s what the Gay Mother said as she battled through and was indeed nearly blown down.

We were told to wait in the waiting room. Nurses called persons for ‘vaccination’ from two different doors. Those that went right were never seen again. Those veering left re-appeared, to cross the waiting room for departure.  Mr Grumpy was most prominent in the room, with his thunderous sighs and murderous consultations of the watch.

The nurse called for ‘Bowden’ and an ancient white-faced gentleman on sticks with springy lady companion staggered forth. I wondered if any relation of ‘Miss Bowden’ whom the Gay Granny had known. She was very much a cut above on the over 60s  village outings to Woolacombe or Bude – good gloves and bag. But the Gay Mother said it was a common Far West name. Think of Foot and Bowden, after all. Of course. What a firm. Lord Foot, of Foot and Bowden, was a brother of Michael Foot, of the donkey jacket at the Cenotaph fame.

These Bowdens came and went. A funny little woman like a Beatrix Potter mouse was next. Her ensemble was pink, fawn and white and she had stiff curls placed on her head in which a mouse could have nested successfully. Upon return from ‘vaccination’, she was some time putting herself back together – quilted jacket and scarves to be managed. When she’d conquered all that, she declared, ‘Well, I hope it’ll be worth it.’

Mr Grumpy was called to the right so he had his final huff, ‘Not before time’ and was never seen again. The left-side nurse then re-appeared and called for Bowden. ‘You’ve already had them,’ I said helpfully. So she retreated to consult her clinic roster. A small boy was now in the waiting room, accompanied by a mother and sister who plainly hadn’t a hope up against this phenomenon. ‘Longer one,’ he boomed at the sister. He was playing with some wire thing through which you thread bricks, kindly provided by the medical authorities for the amusement of infants. Now it was his turn. But what about the Gay Mother? Did she count for nothing?

The small boy returned and whipped his entourage out of the room. At last, the Gay Mother was summoned. Meanwhile a high priestess type had appeared. ‘Where do I go?’ she proclaimed to the ceiling. There was an aura of blindness, although not actually blind, but seeing through to the Beyond. Watching the Gay Mother getting across the room with her stick, she wailed, ‘Oh, she’s in pain.’ ‘She’s 99,’ I said, ‘nearly 100 in fact.’ i.e. that’s what being 99 nearly 100 looks like.

When the Gay Mother came back from ‘vaccination’, Mystic Meg embraced her. ‘You’re doing so well,’ she urged. The Nurse had apparently given the same chant for the Gay Mother.

Later, I had to explain the conduct of Mystic Meg and how she had thought the Gay Mother in pain. ‘I am in pain,’ the Gay Mother said with pride.

Who would have thought that a dreary doctors’ surgery with strip lighting could prove so diverting?

I couldn’t have enjoyed it more.

And with outfit interest too.