Doctor What?

Happy New Year!

Yes, we’ve been stuffing our faces with galette, truffling through the crumbs, hunting for little king-shaped figurines, hoping to avoid fatal obstructions and shattered crowns….as you do.

I am busy. Watching snowflakes falling. Fast little buggers. They’re coating the ground with unnerving speed. I am wondering if I should put the snow chains on (yeah, like I really do that kind of seriously nail-endangering bloke stuff), hurl the shovel in the boot and slide down to the school to collect Sprog…before he has to spend the night in a snow drift.

I am preoccupied. Spouse has divulged something troubling. He has been discussing me behind my back. Now usually, I am happy to be the centre of attention, being firmly of the belief that I am possibly the most fascinating creature that ever stomped moodily twixt chocolate box and boudoir.

‘How is that psychotic wife of yours?’ Spouse was asked the other night, in a pleasant, banter-ish sort of way.

The man posing the question is someone I hardly know at all. In fact, the only tantalisingly vague detail I know about him is that he is a Dr. By that, I mean he goes by the title of Dr. And he has lots of wild, silver hair and a pointless goatee (in all senses of the word.)

So, now I’m fretting. If he’s a doctor of Aztec Pottery Symbolism, I’m cool with that. If he wants to call me psychotic…I’m sure he has his reasons. I would even allow him to be a doctor of law, astro-physics, economics or even sociology, fer chrissakes.


But…what if he is a psychiatric doctor?

And why won’t Spouse tell me how he replied to this impertinent chap’s enquiry?

Hurrumph….I am going to stuff a handful of the cold white stuff down his trousers…snowballs might jog his memory.

I've just remembered something...

I once forbade (is that a word?) the Dr access through our village. I stood in front of his car and told him to turn around. A ewe had been caught short and was giving birth in the lane further up...and she wasn't to be disturbed. I wasn't rude. I don't even recall waving my arms about, much. Anyway, I was only following instructions from the shepherd. And there was an alternative route he could have taken. And the sheep poo would have shampooed off. And all the afterbirth stains needed were a good soak.