Squashed for a late Burns Supper

An NHS clinic is not for the faint hearted. A visit to one ensures the rubbing of shoulders with the old, sick, broken and unwashed, representing a cross section of the population.

There is nowhere more likely to demonstrate the frailties of the human body and depress the spirits than a waiting room, smaller than my sitting room, filled to overflowing with casts, splints, bandages and crutches.

I sit like the others, avoiding eye contact, staring at the floor but with ears pricked for a nurse shouting my name.
At last it's my turn and I follow the nurse to meet the doctor, an Indian registrar whose accent is difficult to follow, but who is nevertheless charming.

A shoulder examination and two X-rays later, with the news that things are healing, I am led through to a physiotherapist who looks too young and pleasant to hurt me She gives me a sheet of shoulder exercises and tells me to keep wearing my sling and not to lift anything heavy; I know she means the vacuum cleaner and not the camera.

I make an appointment for four weeks hence, and I'm free to go.
I skip out into the rain, so glad to be away from all things medical. I am one of the lucky ones, I've escaped their clutches for the time being.

My blip is the butter nut squash destined for the soup pot in readiness for the arrival of the Golden Boy from Budapest tomorrow. Haggis and neeps will be on the menu too, served a day later than usual.