While I began walking back from the surgery I smiled a  wry sort of smile to myself (as you do when things haven’t worked out quite right but you find it funny).

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” I had said to the receptionist just a few minutes earlier.

“Late?,” the receptionist scrutinised the screen in front of her, “Which doctor are you seeing?”

“Doctor Harvey at nine-forty,” I answered.

“Doctor Harvey isn’t on today,” the lady peered through her glasses at the computer screen again.

“But my husband got me an appointment for this morning,” I was adamant.

“No, you’re down for Doctor Harvey at nine-forty on Thursday morning!”

“Well I can’t wait until Thursday with this pain in my ear. I can’t go through another night like last night – I shall have to go to a hospital… or a witch doctor…” I said.

That did it. She booked me in for this afternoon.

“Chris is a tad deaf,” I said by way of a friendly explanation and the receptionist smiled (no doubt grateful that I wasn’t blaming her for the mix-up).

“The doctor you’ll be seeing is very nice,” she added and we were friends.

I chuckled to myself even though my ear was throbbing and hurting like hell. I wished I had brought my bike – then I could have zoomed home – but I had been running late and Chris took me in the car. So I was walking home and, that being the case, I wished I had worn different shoes, with a bit of heel. In truth, I felt a little ‘down at heel’ without my usual make-up (no time before I left) and wearing an old top and flat shoes, not to forget  the terrible earache…

A young couple with two small boys got out of a car and walked ahead of me down to Dawlish Brook (in the town centre). The woman was huge and tattooed, and it crossed my mind that I must continue with my own diet with more determination. I overtook the family and I wondered if the large tattooed woman, now behind me, was looking at my ample bottom and formulating an idea to begin dieting. At that moment an oncoming white van slowed and the driver’s window came down; a smiling face poked out and said:

“I love you!”

“Oh, Ian,” I smiled back (earache and big bottom forgotten in the wake of those three little words).

I didn’t turn around to check the responses of the family behind me – it was a private comment, said publicly for the greater effect, and a glance around would have been tantamount to gloating. Incidentally, Ian, who isn’t especially handsome but bursting with personality, is a butcher and probably loves quite a few ladies in Dawlish.

I walked on with a spring in my step – or was it a sashay? I like to imagine that the burly tattooed woman smiled wryly to herself.