Vanessa went to see Dr Goode first thing this morning to request some antibiotics for an increasingly gruesome throat infection.
We already knew it was a throat infection because, on Monday, she went to visit Dr Shitt-Too. You've met this medical genius before.
Dr Shitt-Too had a big gawk down Vanessa's gullet and immediately reported the presence of a number of white spots.
"You've got a throat infection!"
Well done him. So what to do?
"Nothing," he said. "It should be better in a couple of days."
This course of "action" had already been predicted by Vanessa's friend Jill whom I met whilst dropping Jamie off at school.
"He'll just tell her to pull herself together," she said dryly. Jill has "had" Dr Shitt-Too er, too.
I wind the clock on two days to this morning, when all - OK, Vanessa - was meant to be well. Then she woke up with the neck of Herman Munster. This is not a good look.
Thankfully, sensing that Dr Shitt-Too might have missed another crucial day at doctor school (i.e. the day they did sore throats) Vanessa had already shrewdly booked an appointment with the ever-reliable (but rarely available) Dr Goode.
Following a short chat and a couple of "say AAARRGGHH"s, Mrs W was dispatched with some penicillin and a throat spray. Who knows, she may even get better now.
As for Dr Shitt-Too, well, like me, he's clearly a man who's never truly found his vocation. Maybe he'll become the next manager of Manchester United.
