Zippedy doo dah

I was up and out early this morning to attend the local clinic so’s the nurse could fit me with the blood pressure monitoring gizmo.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I know my hands are freezing but I don’t seem to be able to get warm today.”

“That’s alright, love.  You’re welcome to warm your hands on me.  I’m all toasty, I’m glad to say.”

“My goodness, you’re right.  Just goes to show the advantage of wrapping up well on a cold winter’s morning.”

“A good breakfast helps, too.”

“Yes,” said.  “So my mother tells me.  Every day.”

Anyway, once the banter was done and the cuff and the controller strapped on she did a trial measurement and then reset the thing to take a reading every thirty minutes until ten o’clock this evening, when I’ve to take the whole lot off ready to return tomorrow.  I get to talk it over with the doctor on Wednesday, which will give me the opportunity to tell him about my left leg, on Graham’s strict instructions.

“It’s only a bit of gout,” I said.

“Nonsense.  You don’t get gout in your legs.  You get gout in the feet.”

“Have you looked at my left foot recently?”

“No… oh.  See what you mean.  Why didn’t you say?”

“No point moaning and whingeing over every little ache and pain.  Give me a bad name, that would.”

“You mean a worse name than the bad name you’ve got already?”

No sensible answer to a ridiculous question like that, I fear, so I held my tongue and thought of daffodils.  And blue birds.  And butterflies.  Helps in all kinds of situations, does thinking of daffodils, blue birds and butterflies.  Zippedy doo dah, I calls it.