Another Routine Appointment That Wasn’t

It was time for my winter flu injection.

I’m proud to say I’ve reached the age where I now get “the jab” for free — a small perk in exchange for my knees making that sound when I sit down.

Little did I know I was about to be added to The Register.

Off I went on foot to the GP surgery furthest from our house. We’ve got two, and I always — always — get sent to the one on the far side of Narnia.

As I walked, two magpies followed me.

Now, I never ignore magpies.

I saluted, nodded politely, and asked how they were doing.

“Better than you,” one replied. Then they buggered off.

I didn’t get the chance to ask what that meant, which felt ominous.

On the way, I thought about The Jab™.

I don’t mind the flu version — seems sensible enough. Unlike that other jab, allegedly for The Covid, invented in a week by mafia crows. I had it. Three, actually. Still not sure whether that was a medical decision or a feathered extortion racket.

Anyway.

I arrived and reported to the front desk, cleverly disguised as a robot tablet pretending to be helpful.

Then I waited.

I wasn’t concerned by the number of people coming out of the nurse’s room rubbing their arms and wincing. Nor was I alarmed by those hobbling from the doctors’ rooms like extras from a disaster movie.

All normal for our surgery.

Eventually, I was called in by the nurse — a cheerful Hobbit in a polo shirt with a stethoscope.

“Good morning!” she chirped.

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you feel good this morning? Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”

Well, she was a Hobbit. It seemed rude not to go full Gandalf.

She chuckled, jabbed my arm with impressive Hobbit efficiency, and I reached for my jacket.

“Just a moment,” she said. “We need to do your breathing test.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re on the COPD register.”

You could have knocked me over with the smallest feather in the known universe.

“Ah, you must be mistaken,” I said, smiling in the helpful tone of a man about to be proven wrong.

She tapped rapidly on her keyboard. Confirmed my name, age, NHS number, star sign, and possibly shoe size.

“Nope. You’re on it. Your last lung scan showed damage.”

“No one told me!” I spluttered.

More typing.

“Ah yes… looks like they forgot to notify you.”

Of course. Classic.

I remembered the scan. Of course I did. It was months ago, in a portakabin in a Tesco car park — the ideal setting for a life-altering medical discovery.

She handed me a tube.

“Now breathe into this as hard as you can.”

Still mildly dazed, I obeyed. She nodded at the results.

“Good news — you don’t need an inhaler. Yet.”

I left the surgery and walked home slowly, unsure whether I should be worried, relieved, or buying shares in Vicks.

Remember, readers:

Magpies know things.