Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

My apology for my silence the past day or two, but ol’ Robbo seems to have caught his first bout of the ‘flu this cold winter, and I’ve spent most of the past 48 hours or so in bed.

These outbreaks of illness always result in the same basic exchange between Self and Mrs. R:

Self:  I’m staying in bed today.  I feel awful.

Mrs. R:  You should go to the doctor!

Self:  Why?  She’d tell me that I have the ‘flu and that I should rest up in bed, which is what I’m doing already.

Mrs. R:  Grrrrrrr……..

 My old father was doctor, as is my brother, so I grew up absorbing a basic sense of the interrelationship of health and medicine, as well as the extent to which the physician’s powers actually reach.¹   I would not go so far as to suggest that Mrs. R  attributes almost shamanistic powers to our medical professionals,  but I do confess to a certain amusement at her incredulity that I would not automatically head for the doc, especially since, as I say, I already know said doc’s prescription.

 

¹ Indeed, it was assumed for most of the years of my misspent yoot that I would follow in teh Old Gentleman’s footsteps.  Well, Organic Chem in college put teh final kybosh on that idea.  It was just as well, as I have since discovered that I have very little tolerance for the sight of blood.  To give but one example, some years ago teh Middle Gel was bitten in the face by the parental fox terrier when we were visiting up to Maine.  We had to take her to teh local emergency room to get stitches.   I was so overcome by the sight of watching her get sewn up that I got very woozy myself, and had to be tended to lest I collapse on the floor.

 

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