constanttrek

Le Docteur

October 11th, 2004

Now that Gary appears to be on the mend, which means we don’t have to return to the hospital where he was being treated, I am free to write with impunity about the aforementioned Le Docteur.
It has to be said that when we pitched up to the hospital, neither of us were in much of a mood to be charmed. There are few things more guaranteed to induce a total sense of humour failure, than finding yourself in serious pain, and without a firm grasp of the local language. But in typical French fashion, the incredibly busy woman behind the office desk was endlessly patient with us, and seemed to find nothing strange in the fact that we had no fixed address, telephone number, or itinery. She gave us our printed form and waved us through into the waiting area of casualty. Now, I mean no disrespect to the fine men and women of the English National Health System when I say this, but the French hospital was a revelation. After nearly three years in England I have become almost a native of that country in my resigned acceptance of the utterly horrible state of it’s health system. The endless queues, filthy, antiquated wards, and incredibly grumpy doctors are the sad evidence of what happens to a good idea when it is thoroughly over-subscribed. So it was with sheer delight that we realised there were only 5 – five! – people waiting ahead of us.
After a short while, a lovely young bloke showed us into a little room. Not a curtained off part of a larger ward, but an actual, private, closed off room. He spoke to us in English, for which we were immensely grateful, and was very kind. After he had a good look at the wound on Gary’s neck, he said he needed a second opinion from “Le Surgeon”, and left us to go and fetch him.
In a few minutes the door opened, angels sang, the lights went dim and Barry White started crooning in the background. Six feet of Gallic cliché strode in with great authority, cocked a lazy eye at us both, and in a voice guaranteed to reduce a legion of Jewish mothers to quivering wrecks, announced with great disdain, “I am Le Surgeon.” I hastily pushed Gary onto the floor, arranged myself in my Dior gown seductively amongst the ring of votive candles, and seduced him with one daring glance from beneath my long lashes. Well, maybe not, but it was close.
Truly though, I cannot imagine anyone ever fitting a stereotype more perfectly than Le Surgeon. He was utterly, breathtakingly, completely unattainably, stunning. He had that kind of languid, fluid elegance which I truly thought was the sole preserve of Georgette Heyer’s Regency period heroes, all fine artistic fingers and long, lean limbs. His face was so classically French it looked as though it had leapt straight from a Truffaut film, lazy eyed, long nosed, and with one of those mouths that…well…it wouldn’t be nice to say what you could do with one of those.
He poked and prodded the horrible mess on the back of Gary’s head with skilful fingers, while I quivered jelly-like on the seat emitting occasional squawks of wonder and drooling unbecomingly all over the floor. He asked questions to which neither of us could respond, Gary because he was in mindless agony, and me because – well – what would you say if the sexiest man on earth fixed you with one boudoir gimlet and said in a treacle thick French accent, “And ‘as eet been a-boom boom boom or’as eet been” –insert Gallic shrug –“’ow you say, all ze time ‘urt?” There was no way I was game to repeat the “boom boom boom” comment. I simply didn’t trust myself.
After nearly reducing both of us to fainting heaps, he stepped back and gave his diagnosis: “You ‘ave I sink ze infection, zees ees bad, uh? I sink you muss take ze antibiotique, and we see zen, uh? Eef on Monday, eet ees steel ze boom boom boom, zen we must operate. I am ‘oping zis is not ‘appen.” He gave another of those shrugs, and looked straight at the mewling heap on the floor that was I. “I sink you can dress zis, hmmmm?” It took a few moments for my poor short-circuited brain to realise he meant Gary’s wound. I nodded thoughtfully and attempted to wordlessly convey by meaningful look that I was the soul of caring, nurturing womanhood, and would indeed make the perfect Florence Nightingale to his George Clooney. He frowned concernedly at the strange woman performing bizarre facial contortions at him and repeated the question. I managed to stammer out my agreement. “So, you will dress zis and zen we shall see. Ze nurse will show you. Et Voila. I weesh you best. Au revoir.” And with a final soulful look which told me that he would love nothing better than to spend the rest of his life naked in a hot tub with me drinking Moet, but that tragically he couldn’t as I was a married woman and he respected such things, he exited.
Well, I’m pretty sure that was his meaning. Gary thought that perhaps he was actually looking for somewhere to wash his hands, but then Gary is a man.
Despite my best attempts to poison the wound on Gary’s head, it is Sunday now and it seems he is actually getting better, so it looks as though my anticipated passionate affair is a non-starter. Gary told me not to worry, he’s sure he can come up with a new life threatening disease, but I suspect my window of opportunity is over. Ah well. We’ll always have Paris.

Entry Filed under: trekking