AKA Head, shoulders, knees and toes...and anus
I’m at a doctor’s surgery due to a renegade toenail, and the lady behind reception has just asked me for my mother’s name. I'm a bit flummoxed.
“My mother’s name?” I ask.
“Yes please.” she replies.
“But I'm forty!”
“It’s for security purposes.” she says matter of factly.
I’m still confused. I didn’t realise that my mother was such a big deal in Budapest. Although saying that maybe I should have twigged a few months back when my brother came over to visit. We went to the Sziget Music Festival and the people on the door wouldn’t let him in until he’d dropped my mother’s name. I thought it was a bit strange at the time, but now it all makes sense. My mother is obviously a big name in Budapest. Her name opens doors. All this time, I never knew.
I take a seat and wait. A few minutes pass.
I turn around to see who this Girit fella is. Poor guy! He sounds like something that men in fluorescent jackets put on roads after heavy snow. A few seconds go by and nobody stands up. Slowly it begins to dawn on me that the receptionist is talking to me. I am the mysterious Girit. I am snowy road's worst nightmare.
“Uh, yes?” I say.
“Dr Body will see you now.” replies the receptionist.
Dr Body! This is now my second favourite doctor’s name after Dr Pop, the doctor who my wife often saw while she was pregnant. I’m now intrigued as to what will greet me behind Dr Body’s door. Will it be a spandex clad aerobics instructor from 1980’s British breakfast television? Will it be a new villain from the Spider-Man universe? Will it be Elle McPherson, having recently graduated from Hungarian medical school?
I open the door and feast my eyes upon Dr Body. Somewhat disappointedly there’s no spandex, no super-villain and no antipodean super-model. He’s just an unassuming grey-haired Hungarian chap. He fixes me with a kindly gaze.
“Halo.” he says.
“Halo.” I reply.
“Angol?” (English) he asks.
“Yes!” I reply excitedly, relieved that I’m not going to have to put my Hungarian medical language knowledge to the test.
He beckons me to take a seat. I comply.
“What is problem?” he asks.
“My toe.” I say. “I think I have an in-growing toenail.”
He motions for me to remove my shoe and sock and I do. I mean, why wouldn’t I? This is Dr Body! THE Dr Body! When Dr Body asks you to do something, you bloody well go and do it!
He studies my toe for a while, strokes his chin and then delivers his expert verdict.
"I think I am going to have to remove some of your knee.” he says.
This is unexpected news.
“My knee?” I say, a little confused and also a tad concerned.
“Yes. Your knee. Just a little.”
This has come as quite a shock. I didn’t even realise anything was wrong with my knee. I’m also beginning to question this man’s medical credentials. Maybe he's like one of those reflexologist people who think they can fix a sore throat by rubbing your little toe a bit. I decide to interrogate him.
“Are you a toe specialist?” I ask, in full David Frost mode.
“Toe specialist?” he replies. “No, no, no. Not toe specialist.”
Hmmm. Zsuzsa told me I was seeing a toe specialist.
“No. My specialism is the anus!”
“I go in the anus. My speciality is this. Anus specialist!” he says, a worrying twang of delight in his delivery.
He beckons me to lie down. I do it because he is Dr Body, although I'm now a lot less enthusiastic in following his orders than I was a few moments ago. After all, I don’t know what part of me is in the firing line. My toe? My knee? Maybe my beloved anus? I’m on edge, my eyes frantic as Dr Body pulls out a sharp instrument. I want my mother here with me. As a known face around Budapest she would ensure that no harm came to any of my parts. Dr Body spots my worry and he tries to relax me.
“Okay.” he says. “I will just remove a little knee. No problem. Very little pain.”
Nope. Still worried, although also relieved that my anus doesn’t appear to be on the menu.
I’m like a frightened rabbit as Dr Body, as quick as a flash, grabs my foot, sprays freezing spray on my toe and cuts a piece of my toenail off. He shows me the bit of severed toenail.
“See. Just a little bit of knee.”
I put my sock and shoe back on, covering up five of my ten tiny knees in the process, leave the surgery and hobble home to ask my beloved wife why she felt the need to send me to see an anus specialist.