Midway through my afternoon surgery I went to relieve myself and discovered to my horror that my flies were down. Not just down, but broken. How long had I been embarrassing myself? I wondered. Few patients (though some might have been assertive enough) would have had the audacity to mention it. For the remainder of the session I kept my pullover pulled down to its maximum extent, and made sure to keep my legs crossed.
Later in the same surgery, more embarrassment when I asked a patient how his smoking cessation was going. He answered by asking me in my turn if I was still smoking. Normally I have a smart-Alec response along the lines of:
"I ask about your habits because I am your doctor. I discuss my habits with my own doctor"
This wouldn't wash with this guy, however. I've known him, socially as well as professionally for nearly twenty years; it was he who enhanced my life by introducing me to ambient music in the early 90s. So I had to come clean and admit I was still on 30 a day
I remembered late last night that there was one photo from my "lost reel" still in existence; the one I had sent as an attachment to a friend. As it was one of the best, I shall make a large print and put it in an elaborate frame. A kind of memorial to the lost ones, you see.
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