Boxing Clever

Last week, I received a surprise phone call from my doctor.
“Mr Ormsby?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good… so you’re not dead then. It’s Dr Shapiro here. We need to make you an appointment.”
“Club fees due?”
“Not ’til October.”
“Daughter getting married?”
“Chance would be a fine thing.”
“Class action going ahead?”
“It worked on macaques, didn’t it?”
“Okay, you got me,” I conceded defeat.
“I need to buy a roof box for the Porsche,” Dr Shapiro announced. “Mother was due to take the train back to Cornwall on Sunday but they’re going out on strike, so I’ll be taking her in the car now.”
“Will she fit in a roof box?”
“Well, herein lies the problem: it’s quite a long journey and I’m worried if she starts fidgeting with her artificial leg she may scratch the interior.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“The armrests are African Rosewood.”
“Drill a few air holes to cover yourself legally.”
“When can you come in then?”
“First, can you tell me why it’s impossible to make an appointment any other time?” I was slightly annoyed.
“Mrs Hashimoto owes money to the Coffee Fund and now she’s too scared to answer the phone.”
“I understand the whole ‘honour’ thing but isn’t she being a bit dramatic?”
“She owes it £4000.”
“Since when?”
“Since a Diversity consultancy recommended outsourcing it to the Yakuza.”
“What if something happens to her?”
“I’ll miss Teriyaki Tuesdays, that’s for sure. Can you come in tomorrow at four?”
The next afternoon I found myself seated on what looked like a giant roll of toilet paper which ran the length of an examination table.
“I feel like a garden gnome.”
“That explains the pot belly.”
“I do not have a pot belly.”
“Lay off the beer,” Dr Shapiro admonished while peering into my right ear. “Did you know that earwax is genetic? Depending upon your parents, you’ll have either wet earwax or dry earwax.”
“Did you learn that in medical school?”
“No, TikTok.”
“For the record, I don’t drink beer. I think some of the weight’s due to when we weren’t permitted to exercise outdoors, due to lockdown.”
“What exercise do you do outdoors?”
“I walk a lot.”
“It’s not exercise if everybody does it. What else?”
“I garden quite a bit.”
“So does Mrs Hashimoto and she’s a hundred and something,” Dr Shapiro moved on to my lymph nodes. “Anything other physical pursuits?”
“How about going shopping?”
“Online doesn’t count.”
He had me.
“Does this look like a wart to you?” he then held out his index finger.
“Shouldn’t you know that?”
“It certainly looks like one. When you get home I want you to have a proper shower. The last thing you need is a colony of these setting up camp on your todger.”
“You touched me down there knowing you had a wart on your finger?”
“I wasn’t entirely sure before. Let me get some rubbing alcohol but I do need to warn you: this is really going to sting.”
“I’ll pay you anything NOT to proceed,” I pleaded.
“I’ll let Mother know we’re good to go,” he took out his phone. “Now then, will that be cash or card?”







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