On Friday morning I was peeing razor blades so I rang up the doctor and was given an appointment after lunch. The surgery was at the top of a dingy staircase in an ancient, dilapidated village house. Except for some magazines spread out on a table, the waiting room might have been a comfortably furnished private sitting room. The woman with whom I am staying speaks better French than me and she came along to translate if necessary. We sat down on one of the sofas, and while we waited she picked up a magazine and was immediately absorbed by beach photos of celebrity couples. I made a snobbish remark about her interest in such things. She defended herself by saying that she simply couldn’t help herself. In a tetchy frame of mind, I took my criticism further, observing that her lack of interest in current and foreign affairs showed a deficiency in her intellect. She replied that the news depressed her, and that she would rather look at the beach bodies of pop stars and actors any day.
The doctor hurried into the room peeling off her coat revealing a ra-ra skirt over a frilly petticoat over fishnet, seamed tights. She indicated with a nod that I should follow her into the consulting room, which was also full of homely furniture. Among the occasional tables and armchairs was a desk. I sat on one side of it, she opposite. The doctor was restless and mentally disorganised after her lunch and unable to compose herself. She tried lolling across the desk with her right arm extended towards me, then she switched to her left side. Then she leaned dangerously back in her chair with her fingers knitted behind her head. Finally she gripped the edge of the desk with both hands and pressed her chest against the edge of the table and looked up at me from a sort of press-up position.
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