Afternoon surgery is such a bore; it's full of old people. I don't like old people their skin is too saggy and I don't trust it, they feel nasty, even with the gloves on.
I've just given Mrs Johansson what she thinks are anti-inflammatories for her knees but is in fact some top notch ecstasy that my mate, Cool Wilhelm, brought back with him from the Dam. I miss Amsterdam, life was so much easier over there.
Next up is Mr Davis and his piles. I keep telling him he needs to stop straining and let things happen naturally, maybe even change his diet. But every week or so in he comes whining and moaning and showing me his arsehole. Last time I pushed them back in he asked how I managed to do it with both my hands on his shoulders. I told him to inhale from the bottle and give me a minute, he seemed happy enough with the reacharound in the end anyway.
This isn't what I signed up for; I became a doctor for the free drugs and all the pussy.
I should have become a surgeon, all those cool operations and the funky anaesthetics. I know one chap, Dai the sleep they call him, he was out for four days once. The lucky bastard.
I did a stint in theatre at med school, it was brilliant. We operated on that porn star; you know the one who set the world record for the most blow jobs in an hour, jaw like an anaconda on her. Anyway we did a vaginal tuck for her; it was and still is pioneering surgery. We fitted her with drawstrings tucked behind her flaps so when it gets a bit baggy or she is with a less than well-endowed colleague she can pull it all in. Of course she can let it all out as well should she star in a film a little more left-field.
They were halcyon days, still we work with what we've got don't we?
I rummage around on my desk for the lube and poppers, wolf down a few Viagra and snap another pair of gloves on. I Sit for a moment or two stretching my fingers and letting the feel of the latex calm me.
Then I press the buzzer and call Mr Davis in.
It's going to be a long day.