If there is one thing I dislike more than a Doctors office, I can’t think of it.
Or, maybe I can. A hospital.
That dislike was re-introduced to me over the last couple of weeks. About two weeks ago I’d cause to speak with the Doctors assistant and she asked me if I smoked and I told her I did. She said I didn’t smell like it.
To which I said I’d taken a bath.
To which she asked if that was my yearly bath or special.
Many thoughts circulated through and among the BB’s of my mind, but I gummed my tongue and simply allowed as how it was my yearly, or near enough to count as such. She nodded and we got on with business.
Then this next appointment was a necessary thing, I needed stiches removed and the same assistant was the one for the debrief and I asked her if she remembered our conversation about bathing. She said that she did, so . . .
I asked her, in the interests of accuracy, if skinny dipping in the stock tank was counted as bathing and she said she didn’t think so.
So, I’m stuck with that former visit and dthat as my yearly.
She dis say she was glad it hadn’t been hot like in July.
I hate Doctors offices.
From the reaches,