The first thing I must do is to apologise for the mis-spelling of “garlic” in my last Blog entry. I have always thought that correct spelling and punctuation is most important in any communication; I even spell correctly and punctuate text messages! The only excuses I can give, albeit rather weak ones, are that I have some good friends in Swindon called Garlick and that I am getting old and confused.
Back to Portugal, where I have been very ill. That is a comparative “very ill” as I tend to be a pretty healthy sort of bloke: probably years of drinking Arkell’s 3Bs have made me resistant to germs. However, I recently contracted a stinking cold, since when I have had an earache which has ranged from a niggling pain to agony. Sue finally decided that she had had enough of my whingeing, so insisted that I go to see the local doctor.
In the nearby village of Serra, there is a health centre so off I set one morning last week to see the doctor. At the receptionist’s desk, I explained my problem in pigeon Portuguese and she pointed to some chairs outside of another door and said that I should wait there. After about five minutes, the door opened and a rather stern (though not unattractive) lady in a white coat invited me in. So far, good thinks I.
The stern lady asked me (I think) what was wrong. I explained about the earache. She looked at me for a few seconds, and then said in perfect English, “And just how do you think physiotherapy can help you?”
Luckily, she was then able to explain that the nearest doctor was in the town of Tomar, and so, with the physiotherapist’s instructions, I found the health centre. It was absolute mayhem. A maelstrom of men, women and children milling around, with several different queues, waiting rooms, surgeries and receptions. I finally found what looked liked the general reception and joined the end of the queue. After half an hour, I reached the receptionist’s desk and, as I arrived, she said, “Number sixty seven.”
The man behind me produced a little ticket labeled “67” and was greeted by Senora receptionist, ignoring me altogether. I then realized that I had to take a ticket, much like those at Tesco’s deli. counter. So I could do nothing else but go to the back of the queue, take a ticket and start all over again.
Finally I reached the desk and, after a brief explanation of my symptoms, was directed to a line of chairs further down the corridor. After another few minutes, the people in the queue moved into a nearby room, so I naturally followed them in and sat down waiting to seen. I began to think something may be wrong when I noticed that all the other patients were:
a) women, and
b) heavily pregnant
Also, the room was covered in pictures of bouncing babies and bosoms with posters extolling the virtues of breast feeding. Blushing madly and apologising profusely, I made another strategic withdrawal and went home and locked myself away in a darkened room until my colour had returned to normal.
The next day, we found a private practice in Tomar and paid 50 Euros for a consultation and another 30 euros for various pills. I am now cured and determined that I will never be ill again. Any chance of a delivery of Arkell’s to Portugal?