‘My life’s over, doctor,’ I said. ‘A young man like you! Nonsense!’ he said, peering at me over his half-moon glasses. He was that wonderful combination: a fat man squeezed into an old-fashioned waistcoat. Occasionally, he mopped the perspiration from his brow with the handkerchief he kept in the outside breast pocket of his jacket.
‘How old are you?’ he said. I told him. He wrote the figure down. ‘And how old is your partner?’ I told him. He raised his eyebrows and wrote this figure down underneath. ‘How long have you been together?’ ‘About three months,’ I said. ‘And how long have you been having difficulties?’ ‘About three months,’ I said, and he wrote that down as well.
‘Do you smoke?’ ‘Yes.’ He ticked a box. ‘Has the problem occurred before?’ ‘No.’ ‘Any heart problems or illnesses such as diabetes?’ ‘No.’ ‘Right, let’s have a look at you.’
Panting, owing to the exertion involved in bending down, he measured my blood pressure, timed my heart rate and carefully examined my private parts, paying particular attention to my testes.
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