At 10.30 am I went to the doctor for my annual, pre-Xmas cholesterol test. Hopefully, when the results come through, my cholesterol will prove to be of the same high-quality that it always has been. If so, and there's a surplus, I may even donate some of the extra to those unfortunates who have less than me. (I've always been rather thoughtful in this respect.) Anyhow, while waiting to have my blood extracted, I took the opportunity to read some of the notices posted up on the surgery walls. Curiously, one was for a local undertaker. Thinking about it, isn't this being rather defeatist? After all, if, say, a whorehouse were to plaster its walls with adverts for VD clinics, or a restaurant displayed a stomach-pump and a range of indigestion remedies on its menu, your probable first reaction would be to have serious doubts about the quality of what was on offer.
But a more worrying possibility now occurs to me. Suppose it's actually a reciprocal arrangement, and the undertaker has adverts up for the local doctor? The clear implication of this is that death is not necessarily the end, and that something can, in fact, be done about it. What sort of doctor can bring corpses back to life, though? As far as I'm aware, not even BUPA offer this sort of thing (or if they do, it's not included in the £65 monthly tariff that I currently pay). The matter must therefore be investigated further.
Accordingly, the next time there's a violent thunderstorm, I'll nip round to the surgery and take a peek in through the window. If I see a hunchback in there and, in the background, hear maniacal cries of "It's alive! It's alive! IT'S ALIVE!" then my worst suspicions will be confirmed. In the meantime, perhaps I should offer to equip all the local villagers with flaming torches just to be on the safe side.
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