what the doctor prescribes

The noble Heelers wanders through the hall of the old chateau groaning like a heffalump in pain.

His back is hunched.

His face is contorted.

One of his eyes bulges rather oddly.

All that's missing is a mob of peasants carrying pitch forks and blazing torches, for the poignant scene to pass as a remake of Frankenstein.

Entering the kitchen he espies his brother Doctor Barn who is hatching a coffee.

"Whassup?" says Doctor Barn mobile phonily.

"My eye," groans Baron Frankenstein.

The Doc peers.

"Interesting," he proclaims.

"I'm glad my discomfiture is good for something," sez me with some bitterness.

"You've got a Bonymian cyst on your eyelid," muses the Doc dispassionately.

"Bohemian rhapsody?" enquireth me.

"A Bonymian cyst," insists the Doc.

Like a young Marcus Welby he produces a prescription pad from under his cornflakes bowl and scribbles briefly.

He proffers it.

"Bring this to the chemist," he advises. "It should clear up your cyst in a day or two. If not we'll have another look."

"Another look? You don't mean I might need surgery?"

"Shouldn't think so. You'd have to be very unlucky."

The noble Heelers is momentarily more distrait than any of you have ever seen him.

"Unlucky?" I cry. "But I am unlucky. I'm cosmically unlucky. Two grand on John McCain to win the American presidency remember? And what happens? The entire banking system of the free world and the stock exchanges of the free world and the large corporations of the free world, are suddenly exposed on the eve of the election as a bunch of thieving mafiosi. The perfect storm for Barack. And then I put another five hundred quid on David Cameron to win the Brit elections and what do the Brits do? For the first time in their history they opt for an honorable draw. Oh I'm doomed. Doooooomed."

"Nah, you'll probably be alright."

"Probably?"

The Doc does not trouble to answer, preferring to resume negotiations with his cornflakes.

I glance at the prescription.

"What's this?" I exclaim suspiciously.

"It's an antibiotic," quoth he without looking up.

"An antibiotic called Fukkythalmic?" I enquire.

There is scepticism writ large across those of my  gentle preraphaelite features which are still handsome.

The scepticism doesn't quite reach my eyes.

"The antibiotic is called Fucithalmic, pronounced Foosie, Foosie, you're reading it wrong," quoth the Doc.

"Are you making up antibiotics just for a larf with Uncle Scutch?" I demand hotly.

Our Uncle Scutch runs a pharmacy.

He and Doctor Barn are well capable of contriving the sort of jollies which would involve me running back and forth from one to the other with prescriptions for Fukkythalmic, Dikaheadron, Shitfaceadrine, and such like.

"No it's the real deal," insists Doctor Barn.

"Why are there scribbles acoss the bottom of the prescription?" I persist.

"Doctors put those on prescriptions in case a patient loses one and some drug adict finds it and uses it to get illegal substances," explains the Doc.

"Did you give me a prescription that your kids had already scribbled on?" I challenge.

The Doc stands and leaves the room without another word.

He does not return.