Obviously young Charlie Croker got off lightly; he only went down for two years, not twenty.
Marcia rang me out of the blue this afternoon and told me that Dr. Abel and his (charming) daughter Maya were coming to stay. I wasn't quite sure what to say. The last time I saw Dr. Abel, he was slashing my leg with a scalpel and then he and a beefy nurse tried to strangle it. As one operation followed another in UK Marcia apparently told Dr. Abel that in the opinion of his esteemed professional colleagues in London, he was a butcher. Now it is entirely possible that after my bloody encounter with him I may, as I limped away from his clinic, have suggested something along those lines but I never expected Marcia to attribute those sentiments to Doctors in UK and inform Dr. Abel on my behalf.
'Well that explains why he hasn't rung since I returned to find out how I am,' I muttered bitterly when Marcia told me what she had said to him soon after I got back. I never expected to see him again and was wondering just which doctor I could see now in an emergency. Dr. Abel was literally the family doctor, he's Marcia's cousin.
I dug out a couple of bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon and uncorked them to breathe before hauling out the ingredients for Lasagne. Not knowing exactly when they would arrive, I thought an oven finished supper safest. Pressed into military service, Dr. Abel had honed his craft during the civil war so I knew he could take a joke. No doubt he would if not laugh off such a slight, at least just shrug it off. He was coming to stay so that was a good sign.
I shook his hand as he walked in.
'No need for me to ask how you are,' he said, 'since you have been treated by the finest Doctors in Europe.'
Irony so dense it caused ripples in the Earth's magnetic field.