Today diabetic Mr Limp wants more Levitra - but he had eight two weeks ago. He is, he explains, in a new relationship, and once a night is to be expected. The lady would not be impressed to be told she must wait till the next full moon for a repeat performance.
I feel rather like Joyce Grenfell scolding the sixth form as I put it to him that the cost of his sexual happiness is not something that the NHS can bear alone, and he leaves somewhat unsatisfied (unfortunate choice of adjective), carrying a private scrip and muttering about the NHS funding nicotine patches.
I am equally unhappy with my performance (ooh, Deirdre) as discussions of sexual happiness sound rather more Barbara Cartland than GP.
I try to come up with a smoother explanation, one that doesn't sound as like a headmistress trying to read porn to her cat. But what? The thing is, I tell the sat nav, you have every right to sex - no, cut that, copulate? Have intercourse? Too clinical. Make love? Too Mills and Boon. Be sexually active as often as you like ... (phew!) but the NHS can't afford to support limitless activity ... No, can't fund unlimited enjoyment ... No, can't support more than four, er, goes? Bonks? Uses (argh) ... each month - damn it, what's wrong with me? And from a dim corner of the past I hear my old biology teacher say, 'now girls, biology lessons are not the place for sexual innuendo,' and I feel myself blush.
People like me (repressed?) need a GP phrase book. You know, 10 ways for nice girls to talk about sex, three socially acceptable words for the male organ. Either that or refuse to let girls who went to single-sex grammar schools become GPs. You can take the girl out of the grammar school but you can't take the grammar school out of the girl.