Dave avoids doctors at all costs. If something bad is going on, would it make him feel any better if he knew about it?
He places his arm in the blood pressure measuring machine. The receptionist says he has to if he wants to see the doctor.
Dave doesn’t want to see the doctor. He doesn’t want to know what his blood pressure is either. Lord knows he already has enough things to worry about.
But his big toe is going rotten. Yellow gloop oozes into his socks and if something isn’t done soon he fears that his toe will fall off – seriously marring his rugged film star looks.
He rolls up his sleeve and places his arm inside the machine. He feels like James Herriot examining the inside of a cow that’s struggling to give birth.
He presses green for go and there’s an alarming crumpling sound. The machine swallows his arm and as it tightens its grip the red digits start clocking up at a rapid rate. A hundred and twenty already… that surely can’t mean anything good. Not that Dave has any idea what a good number should be.
Dave’s heart is working like a jack-hammer.
Dave is convinced that he’s probably going to drop dead before he makes it out of the surgery. The machine keeps clamping on down. Is there something wrong with it? Perhaps there’s a fault somewhere and the damn thing’s going to crush his arm adding a further complication his toe woes.
He looks around and wonders if he should call out. But if he does call out and this is all just normal procedure….
Mercifully, the machine puts Dave out of his misery. The pressure eases and the digits start to fall to what he hopes is a more realistic figure.
The machine spits out a ticket with a number on it. It reminds Dave of the little tickets you collect when joining the deli queue.
Olives, cheddar, salami…
But god knows what he’ll get when he reaches the end of this particular line.