I remember as a kid having a really sore stomach and a ‘squiffy’ back end for a few days, so my mother took me down to the local surgery to see the doctor. I sat there in my purple corduroy flares clutching my sore belly when suddenly I let out a massive fart.
I knew there was more to it than just wind though, as it felt like I was sitting in a warm and lumpy puddle, but before I could tell my mother what had just befouled my purple and yellow y-fronts, they called our name and I was dragged off up a hallway and into a doctors surgery.
I remember his stern face as he stopped talking to my mum and realised that a small, yellowy brown puddle had formed around one of my shoes. Also, I had left a trail of skitters along the hallway from the waiting room right into his immaculate office, and as his face grew red he looked me dead in the eye and called me a little, more solid version of what I’d left pooling into the fibres of his NHS provided carpet.
He soon changed his tune though when my mother threatened to ram his “fancy shmancy” pen in a very unsavoury place, before she dragged me out of the surgery and toward the nearest shop, where she got two carrier bags. One for my flares and pants and one as a makeshift nappy to protect the taxi seat from my noxious nethers as we drove home.
I say all this because it’s a good indication of how times have changed, and how the reception that The Destroyer got was far more friendly and forgiving than I ever did, thanks to his doctor being a lovely and understanding GP who knows that sometimes kids will leave some form of bodily fluid over their floors or clothing. Let me explain..
The wee man has been suffering from a chesty cough for a while, and we decided to get him in to the doctor to give him a quick check up in case it was an infection that could be fought off with antibiotics. The doctor waved us into her room with a smile, and in moments had won the wee man over with a mixture of laughter and dinosaur toys. Not one complaint did he make when she asked him to breathe deeply as her cold stethoscope lay on his chest, not a peep of complaint when she stuck the thermometer device in his lug and only a slightly suspicious side eye when she asked him to open his mouth wide and say ‘Aaaah’.
With a little coaxing he was wide mouthed, and she quickly took a swab from his cheek. “Right” she said, “I’m just going to push your tongue down with the stick while I look at the back of your throat”. Again, no problems with compliance from this little dude. That was until she pushed the tongue depressor maybe a little too far in, and he heaved vomit all over his sleeve, my arm, himself and the floor.
It was like someone had swung a pickaxe into the side of a sewage tanker as he sprayed a mixture of half digested pancake and cheese all over the floor, before casually wiping his face with his sleeve then looking down at the mess and saying, “LOOK! Grandma’s soup!”
“Oh Jeez, I’m so sorry!” I yelped, as I hurriedly grabbed some paper towels to scrub the floor with. Luckily she laughed as she took off her toddler vomit stained cardigan and assured us it was all fine, and that thankfully he was her last patient of the day. Once we got everything cleaned up we left with him waving back to his new doctor pal, before hurrying home to assure Grandma that her soup is far more wonderful than NHS floor vomit..