Sausages are not the only fruit. 

This blog title popped into my head and paraphrases Jeanette Winterson. It bears no relation to the content of this post other than I casually mention sausages once. 

Most of what follows was drafted last weekend, as is customary round these parts.  Well, my parts, to be specific, but please don’t dwell on my parts on a Saturday night when you’re enjoying Eurovision or whatever. Nobody needs a vision of my parts. Partsovision, if you will. Anyway, read on, if you like reading week old shite. 

………………..

Oh christ. I’m sitting here frowning at my laptop in full view of passers-by. I’m meant to be starting this bloody assessment putting the finishing touches to an assessment but had the urge to blog. I’m hoping Mrs ‘Baps turns into the drive any moment now and goes “aww look at her with her massive clever brain beavering away on her assessment”, when in reality I’m ogling overpriced mascara on the Clarins website. 

You didn’t see me, right? Actually she’ll be pleased when she gets here because I’ve sausages on the go, which isn’t a euphemism. She enjoys a sausage, does Mrs Baps. 

Giddy at the thought of pay day, I spent an hour of insomnia last night looking at and coveting ridiculously expensive beauty products I can’t afford and don’t need, including a contouring kit with bronzer and shimmery glittery highlighter, neither of which I would know what to do with. Contouring is a dark art like threading a needle when you’re over 40, or knowing where to use a semicolon. I didn’t buy it thankfully, mainly because you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Which would be a great name for a beauty salon – The Sow’s Ear. Or maybe for a hipster butcher shop, would that that were a thing. 
So I woke up this morning feeling under the weather, having discovered a new ailment, no doubt another symptom of my advancing years. I can’t lie on my left side in bed due to aches and pains. It’s a real bummer because that’s the side I lie on with the iPad propped up on the bedside cabinet watching Mad Men and eating toast. 

I’ve been thinking it might be a good idea for the NHS to have pretend doctors in GP Surgeries.  Kid-on doctors* Fake doctors. Faux doctors. You know, the kind of doctor that would appease idiots like me who have constant ailments that need ‘looked at’ by a professional.  A kid-on doctor who would just give you a cuddle or  prescribe a boxset binge and a family bag of Maltesers. Or prescribe a fag at the back door and to hell with the naysayers. 

I fancy that the phone call would go thus:

Ring ring

“Hello it’s Li…”

“Hello Lindsey. What can we do for you today?”

“I need to see the doctor. Have you any appointments today”

Receptionist places hand over phone, and  – sotto voce- informs the doctor:

“That’s Lindsey on the phone being all nicey-nicey again”

Real doctor: “What’s wrong with her now for chrissake?”

Receptionist: “Fuck knows. Fuck all probably. Will I put her in with the SPECIAL DOCTOR?”

Doctor: “Aye, wait I’ll ask Babs if she’s free. BARBARA! WHEN YOU’VE FINISHED CLEANING THAT TOILET WE’VE GOT A SPECIAL PATIENT COMING IN. CAN YOU SEE HER?”

Barbara, sighing: “Aye pencil her in for 5 o’clock. I’m sick of this. I’m only on Season 2 of Grey’s Anatomy and chapter 2 of Gynaecology for Dummies. I haven’t even covered that thing where you hit the sweet spot in somebody’s knee with a tiny hammer and their leg shoots up”

Doctor: “Don’t need your life story. Can you see this idiot or not?”

“Aye okay. I’ll fetch ma Marigolds”

“Oh I don’t think you’ll need them. Sounds like a ‘pants-on’ job”

“Well thank the good Lord Harry for that. I’ve mince in the slow cooker for ma tea”

Receptionist – looking perplexed at significance of mince in slow cooker: “Righto Lindsey that’s you in with Dr Barbara at 5”

And so on and so forth. And as “Barbara” has been comedy-cast as a cleaner in this fantasy – let me make myself clear: I’m not knocking cleaning as a profession, before somebody gets uppity and reports me to the Daily Mail or whatever. I’m just jealous of anybody who can clean. I boak if there’s a hair on the dish sponge, which happens more often than you’d think round my gaff. 

 

*For the benefit of our non-Scottish readers and other foreign friends who struggle to understand my native Dumfries ‘patois’; “kid-on” means pretend. 

Enjoy the remainder of your Saturday evening round your parts. 

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