A typical down-at-heel rural surgery in northeast Scotland.
Curtain opens to reveal the faithful GP sitting at his desk — a rather tired lacklustre fellow whose looks belie his young years. The surgery has seen better days and has long outgrown the purpose for which it was built those few short years ago.
Enter Sandy, a stoical local ploughman who has eventually become cheesed off with his pickle. The strain of several years of sinus pain furrows his brow. He is accompanied by a small child.
Child moves centre stage and commences wreaking havoc. His father seems oblivious to the effect his son's behaviour has on the doctor–patient relationship. He behaves as though he has not heard of the doctor–patient relationship.
Sandy: ‘OK. So, it's some kin' o' rhinitis Doc, but as far as I kin see yi hiv'nae got a clue fit's causin't?’
Doc: ‘That's fair Sandy. True enough.’
Sandy: ‘So hoo lang is't gaunnae tak' t'see this ENT mannie?’
Doc: ‘Well Sandy, the present estimate is sixty-eight weeks.’
Sandy: (his Doric brogue lightening) ‘Six tae eight weeks? Man, that's nae that bad. That wid get me in afore the hearst kicks aff.’
Doc: (nervously) ‘Emm … no, Sandy — sixty-eight weeks …’
Sandy: (looking puzzled) ‘Ye mean nearer the twa month, Doc?’
Doc: (a bead of sweat can be seen forming at his brow) ‘Emm … no, Sandy. Sixty-eight weeks — nearer the two years.’
Sandy: ‘Sixty acht weeks? Yir jokin,man? I could be deid by then.’
The small child looks up at his father, soon loses interest and returns to continue making ripping noises somewhere behind Doc.
Sandy: ‘Hell's bell's, Doc — there man be some mistak'?’
Doc: ‘Emm … yes Sandy, I think you're closer to the truth than you realise.’
(Exit stage left — Sandy accompanied by a bear … sorry, a small child).
- © British Journal of General Practice, 2005.
