Mrs. G's Doctor knows his stuff. He's helpful and matter of fact. He's a nice guy and Mrs. G. likes him fine.
But he talks too much. About himself. And himself.
Their appointments generally go like this:
Mrs. G. walks into his office and sits down in an upholstered chair. He asks her how she is doing, and she says she is fine. This usually takes about 22 seconds. He sits down in his leather chair and spends the next thirteen minutes talking about anything remarkable that is going on in his life. During the last minute and 38 seconds of the appointment he writes out Mrs. G's prescriptions and tells her that he will see her in another three months. Then Mrs. G. walks to her car.
And this is how it's gone year after year— for a decade.
Here are some things Mrs. G. knows about her doctor:
At least, at the very least, he knows her name. She'll take that
Oh the hoops she will jump throught to stay on an even keel.
Mrs. G. went in yesterday morning for her quarterly appointment. As per usual, Mrs. G. went into her doctor's office, listened to him rattle on about his upcoming trip to Whistler and all the places he likes to eat when he is there and got her prescription. As he was walking her to the door, he patted her on the back and said, Merry Christmas Helen.
Hold up. Who's Helen?
For some reason this tickled her. She shook her head all the way to her car.