sublime good humour

Sitting in the canteen at the surgery of the medico known to scholars of classical literature as Doctor Barn.
I am waiting for the goodish doctor to join me for a cup of tea.
He's seeing a patient in an adjoining room
As I stir the tea, I hear the following exchange.
"How are you today Mick?"
"Not so bad Doctor."
"What can I do for you?"
"To be perfectly honest Doctor I need a sick cert to get off work for a week."
"What's wrong with you?"
"Er, to be perfectly honest Doctor, I'm going to Medjugorje."
This conversation caused Ireland's greatest living poet no little amusement from his vantage point in the canteen.
When my brother finally enters the canteen, I am unable to contain my enthusiasm.
"Is that the sort of patient you get paid to see?" I demand.
"It is," sez Daktari.
"And do you ever actually save any lives?" I insist.
"No," sez Daktari.
Having shared a beverage with the Doc, I wander up town to see the obsessive dentist.
I call her the obsessive dentist because she's obsessed with dentistry.
Absolutely impervious to my charms.
There'll be nought going on here this morning, except plucking teeth.
I kid you not.
With brusque efficiency and an absolute paucity of romantic badinage, the obsessive dentist gets me to lie back on a chair in her office while she endeavours to part me from one of my wisdom teeth.
The operation takes longer than expected.
Although she's drugged me, I'm not exactly comfortable.
After half an hour of the obsessive dentist grappling about in my mouth, I am finding it difficult to escape the suspicion that she's actually trying to detach my lower jaw for a joke.
That's just the sort of thing Doctor Barn would put her up to.
I become mildly impatient.
I'm thinking: "For crying out loud, how much longer are you going to be at this? What in tarnation are you doing in there? Are you trying to install a kitchen sink in me?"
Her blonde assistant, a comely lass called Eugenia, moves to the back of the chair so that she can cup my head in her hands.
She needs to cup my head in her hands to prevent it lashing from side to side as the obsessive dentist is at present lashing it from side to side.
Anyhoo.
Eugenia's hands cradle me gently but firmly.
My perspective on the universe changes in a millisecond.
My thoughts are now these: "Why is the dentist in such a rush? What is she playing at. The man who made time made plenty of it. Take it easy there. Slow down. There's nobody here racing away to any appointments. Why does she always have to be in such a god damned hurry? Ah Eugenia. Take me to the drive in and swear that you love me."
All good things come to an end.
Eventually the tooth surrenders.
Emerging from the obsessive dentist's, I betake myself to the Costa Cafe for a brief rendezvous with the Mammy.
We're quaffing lattes.
The Mammy says: "Are you in much pain?"
I shrug disconsolately.
The anesthetic is wearing off.
Mr Pain and I are indeed becoming acquainted.
I'm also becoming painfully aware of my financial situation.
Paying for the lattes has left me entirely devoid of cash.
"Okay," sez the Mammy, "I've got some good news for you."
Curiosity alights on my finely honed preraphaelite features.
"John McCain," sez the Mammy, "has gone ahead in the polls."
Bold readers you should know that the last few thousand quid I'd saved before the Leinster Leader fired me last Christmas, has been invested in a bet on John McCain to win the American Presidency.
The sun comes out.
The Mammy and me toast each other with the lattes.
From somewhere not too far away the ghost of Sylvester Stallone's musical brother Frank comes over to our table and starts to sing the theme tune to the film Staying Alive, which by the way was the sequel to Saturday Night Fever.
Frank Stallone sings:
"I'm back in the race.
The Leinster Leader fired me.
But they are scuzzos.
The thrill of the chase.
You know I'm down.
But I am far from over..."

I find his rendition most inspirational.