Probably the best GP in the world

Bogart would have known the feeling; tall, willowy and blonde, the kind of woman who made you wonder if you had died and gone to smooth-dude heaven.

'You requested a domiciliary consultation on Mrs Magee,' she said.

I adjusted my shades slightly to show I appreciated the view; her pupils dilating, her lips pouting, I could tell she had not expected Dr Farrell, the Dr Farrell of the incisive, clinical referral letters to be so hip he could hardly see over his pelvis.

'Let's drive,' I said.

Leaving town, I saw three thugs harassing an old lady in a wheelchair. I got out of the car and chased them away, giving one a good clip on the ear.

'Pour encourager les autres,' I explained.

'Vous parlez Francais?' she said, impressed.

'Un petit peu,' I said, ever so modestly.

We were driving along a sun-dappled country road when I braked suddenly; she shot forward in her seat, restrained only by her belt, and her golden hair cascaded forward over cheekbones so finely chiselled Michelangelo would have needed a slide-rule to emulate them.

Before she could protest I was already returning to the car, cradling a kitten in my arms.

'Wee thing was abandoned in the middle of the road,' I said, wrapping the kitten in a blanket and feeding her milk from an improvised baby's bottle, 'But I know a poor little gal who lost a puppy a few weeks ago; she'll give her a home.'

At the house (I was glad Mrs Magee's buxom niece Sally was not around; it could have given rise to some unpleasantness; I hate women fighting over me) she confirmed my diagnosis.

'Your doctor was right,' she said, 'Definitely a case of systemic lupus erythematosis.'

'Isn't Dr Farrell always right,' said Mrs Magee, handing over her protection money and the mandatory freshly baked apple pie. I palmed the cash and slipped her some antibiotics.

On the way back I stopped, taking out my mandolin and hamper full of smoked salmon and champagne. 'Had we but all the earth and time/Then Lady, coyness were no crime/But at my back I often hear/Time's winged chariot drawing near,' I whispered.

Her lips tasted of oranges and wine, and we made love on a bed of autumn leaves, her soft cries of ecstasy a descant to the wind sighing in the branches above.

'Can I see you tonight?' she asked.

'Sorry babe,' I replied, 'I never plan ahead.'

Carlsberg don't do domiciliary consultations, but if they did...

Dr Farrell is a GP from County Armagh. Email him at GPcolumnists@haymarket.com

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