Mil Millington worries about being too enthusiastic at the doctor's

My groin strain (you recall it fondly, I'm sure) is still failing to heal properly after many months. So I decided to see my GP in the hope of grovelling myself into some physiotherapy - I'd simply have to face the ordeal that begins with the grim words, "Take a seat."

You see, GP surgeries are an absolute magnet for sick people; A&E is fine - you know where you are if you're sitting next to a head wound - but your mind squeals when you're surrounded by a pestilential mass of coughing, blotchy carriers. You just sit there in silent fear and try to take shallow breaths. However, the place was relatively quiet and I was very brave, so I held out until called by the doctor - who turned out to be one I'd never seen before. She was a young Indian woman. And gorgeous. I almost said, "Wow - can I get you as a calendar?" but that would've been appalling, so I didn't even think it.

Anyway, she asked about the injury, told me to lie on the examination table, I pulled my trousers down, she made notes, and - result! - concluded I needed to see a physio. I was big-grin-happy as I travelled home. Until, rerunning the events in my head, I realised she hadn't actually asked me to pull my trousers down. Argh! Had I, unbidden, shown my groin to an attractive young Indian woman? It'd simply seemed so... natural. Argh! I was a groin flasher! What must she think of me? What had she written in my notes?!

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