16 August 2015

Wednesday was still hot, but Him indoors needed some stitches removed from a head wound.  So, we ran to the car and jabbed at the air-conditioner. Ah, wondrous relief. Safely parked, we sweated up the narrow rue Joseph Rigal, past the hearing specialist, the radiologist's, mammographist - no, not today TG - until at last our Medecin Traitant.  Fortunately only one person in the waiting room. Yes, c'est la France.  Quickly the doctor got out her staple remover - well, that's what it looked like - and removed each stitch. Gritted teeth from Him indoors. There's an infection, she said.  When was the last time you had a tetanus injection?  And what about you too Madame?  We looked at each other.  Jamais, I said, ashamed.  Pointing up the street, she shoved an ordnance into our hands and demanded we fetch the medicine from the pharmacie up the road and come back in 10 minutes. Remembering Tony Hancock from our Birmingham days, Him indoors said I'm not walking round with an empty arm for anyone.  Pausing at the bar, I told him in disgust: You'd better have a quick whisky, remembering too late that the doctor wasn't taking anything out of our arms, but putting something in (unlike Him indoors at the bank!)  Nothing much changes around here.

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