LITMIR.BIZ

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studies the forms in silence.

      “I’ve had no prior experience with these Australian forms but I’ll complete them stage by stage as instructed. I see they require crosses and not ticks, most unusual. Go behind that curtain to fully undress, please.”

      The doctor follows him and draws the curtains tight, so tight not even a microscopic particle of light penetrates through. Well and truly encased in a cocoon of gloomy solitude, he undresses quickly and then regrets it as the bone wrenching cold permeates every pore of his exposed skin. “This is why I’m doing this,” he mutters miserably to himself, “to avoid this bastard cold.”

      He piles his clothes together and as he is about to leave his cold haven turned torture chamber, he realises he is still wearing his socks. Fully undress, please…resonates in his brain. Hopping from one foot to the other he removes the burdensome items and with a theatrical sigh attempts to exit but has difficulty finding where the curtains meet. For a few stalled seconds, which seem an eternity he looks as if he is trying to battle his way through an impenetrable wall of nylon.

      After the doctor rescues him and guides him back into the room, Roger quips, “If that was the intelligence test, Doctor, I fear I failed.”

      The GP allows a thin smile, “Please stand with your feet shoulder width apart, looking straight ahead.”

      His hand cupped under Roger’s shrunken testicles, he instructs him to cough. “Does that hurt?”

      “Only if I try to squeeze toothpaste at the same time,” Roger jokes.

      Unfazed by Roger’s humour, he frowns darkly and asks, “Do you exercise?”

      “Only when I have to,” Roger replies, and then with a leer, “although, I do try to get about twenty push-ups in at least three times a week.”

      “Any exercise that doesn’t involve a coronary is good.” He writes, ‘Active’. More study and careful thought slows the process as he further studies the forms.

      “How much alcohol do you drink?”

      “Too much.”

      The doctor frowns. He writes, ‘two beers a week’.

      “I don’t like the way these government forms are framed but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, or so they say.” He pauses. “I suppose if you insist on going to Australia I can’t see anything medical to prevent you.”

      He takes Roger’s blood pressure and checks his pulse with his wristwatch, then motions to Roger’s clothes indicating he can now return to the English modesty that is world renowned.

      “That’s great, Doctor,” Roger crows struggling to get back into his clothes. His body it seems is used to the chill now and slow moving. He feels as if he is wallowing in Treacle.

      Finally back in familiar territory Roger stands in front of the GP, about to leave, when his judge continues with a quote from the Bible, “You’ll probably get your three score plus ten the same there as here.”

      “One thing though, do you need those?” The doctor is pointing to Roger’s packet of Chesterfield cigarettes in his top shirt pocket. Thinking he is short on words and asking for a smoke, Roger offers him one.

      “No, no, I don’t want one!” He insists, waving his arms in the air in horror. “What I meant was can you? Would you? Stop smoking them?”

      The doctor pauses, as if searching for the correct comment.

      “If anything I can say to you here today,” he begins, “that might extend your life, it’s giving up smoking those damned, awful cigarettes.”

      “Are you serious, Doctor?”

      The GP nods enthusiastically. “Every cigarette you don’t smoke is definitely doing you good.”

      “I’ve heard smoking may not be the best of pastimes health wise, but nothing has ever been stated officially other than it being a nicotine habit. My Gramps refers to them as coffin nails but in a joking way.”

      The doctor enforces with a philosophical nod, “You really would be better off without them.”

      Whilst smoking maybe harmful to his health, Roger is unsure if he wants to stop sucking down those magic bullets. On impulse he takes the opened packet out of his pocket and hands them to him, “Best throw them in your waste bin then, please.”

      “Are you sure?”

      Roger thinks that strange. “Yes, I’m sure.”

      “Might you prefer to give up smoking after you’ve finished this packet?” The doctor asks.

      Roger’s mouth erupts into a smile before he can reel it in. “You’ve never been involved in sales, have you, Doctor?”

      The GP shakes his head. “No, I went straight to medicine.”

      “Well,” Roger grins, “you’d closed the sale. No need to reopen it.”

      At home, they compare visits. Sue’s was walk in walk out. Her Quack took one look at her and the two children, and signed the forms.

      Sue is chuckling and pointing at Roger’s incorrectly buttoned shirt. “You have Tuesday’s button in Wednesday’s hole.”

      “Sue,” Roger pauses, “On the Quacks advice I’ve given up smoking.” His Cheshire cat smile is as wide as though he has been conferred a junior spelling bee award.

      That news almost receives a standing ovation by Sue. Within minutes every ashtray in the house is washed, dried, and disappeared as if by sleight of hand.

      Roger turns his attention to Jayne. “What day is it?”

      “Today,” Jayne replies, “Daddy not smoking anymore.”

      “Bright girl.” Roger turns to Sue, “Our three year old daughter with the seven year old brain scores again.” He reaches out and grasps a wriggling, giggling Jayne for a big cuddle. “Turns out to be Daddy’s favourite day, Sweetheart, because it’s also your third birthday.”

      Sue grins, “Time to celebrate with a cocktail cherry on a stick.”

      Jayne has cordial and cake while Sue and Roger share a bottle of cheap calamity. Jayne wants their wine. Sue dips her finger in her own glass and puts it to Jayne’s mouth.

      Sue whispers to her, “Drinking wine is like angels peeing on your tongue.”

      “She appears to like angel’s pee,” Roger smiles warmly, “welcome to the family, Sweetheart.”

      Sue becomes heuristic, “Remember wine is made from grapes, and grapes are fruit, and fruit is good for us,” then with a frown, “do you think we have a problem with alcohol?”

      “Absolutely,” Roger replies, “as self-appointed sommelier I can confirm we don’t have enough of it. I’m also craving a cigarette as much as Fred devours his treats. Maybe it’s more of a habit than I realised?”

      Sue is supportive. “I’m sure the cravings will grow less frequent for you.”

      “I’ve got a plan to beat it, Sue”

      “Oh, Roger that’s wonderful, what plan?”

      “I haven’t got a plan really, but at work they love it when I say I’ve got a plan.”

      Roger’s only difficult time is at work, when other people are smoking and offer him one, otherwise, Sue is proven correct. Roger finds if he inhales stale smoke from butts in an ashtray, any ashtray, it kills the moment.

      “Admittedly carrying a full ashtray around with me would be an excellent plan, Sue.”

      “It will make you look a complete Knucklehead, that or close to wearing a wrap-around, tie-at-the-back, white jacket.”

      Soon he is turned off by the mere thought of sniffing an

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