THE PRIME MINISTER’S HUSBAND.

What happens when medical services all come to an end?

Gopher August had a tummy ache. It hurt, and the excruciating agony all seemed to emanate from a bulbous something that appeared to have its origin deep down in his gut and had developed, by the time he decided to do something about it, into an extraordinarily ugly lump just below his navel.

“I don’t like the look of that, Gopher,” purred Agreen, who, as well as being the Prime Minister, was his wife of too many years for his own good. “You’ll have to go to the hospital and get it looked at. It might be nasty. It might even be terminal.”

“It is nasty,” growled Gopher, exposing his belly to her, “see, it looks like your face!”

“You are a card,” she giggled, without humour.

But he was an obedient if painfully troubled husband and he took himself to the shiny big hospital just outside town. He drove himself, because he had a flash car and liked people to see just how flash it was. It made him feel good about himself, which is more than could be said of the ugly lump just below his navel because that was showing signs of bursting every time he flexed his midriff.

He parked in an almost empty car-park and shuddered when he noticed that the machine that charged him for the privilege of visiting hospital wanted to charge him in units of five pounds.

“I might have above a trillion in my offshore account, but a fiver’s too much just to park a car,” he grumbled, and he ambled past the machine without paying.

The receptionist wasn’t at her desk, but the tea-boy was.

“She’s gorn home,” growled the tea-boy, “they’re repatriating her because she’s a Pole, though you couldn’t tell from her accent.”

“So who can I see?” asked Gopher, “I’m in considerable pain and my wife is the Prime Minister, you know.”

“You mean she’s Agreen August?” gaped the tea-boy flicking his forelock with a grubby finger. “The Agreen August?” he repeated as if he couldn’t believe his good luck, being in the presence of the high and mighty even though he was a loathsome tea-boy.

“She’s that same very important person, and I’ll thank you to show some respect for her holiness,” grated Gopher. “Now who’s going to mend my painful tummy before it bursts?” he added.

“I can take a look,” grinned the tea-boy, winking mischievously.

“But you’re not doctor!” almost exploded Gopher, “you’re a tea-boy with grubby fingers and I need a doctor.”

“They’ve all gorn,” grinned the tea-boy. “All of ‘em, gorn.”

“What do you mean, gorn?” quivered Gopher.

“To here and there and everywhere,” hummed the tea-boy. “Sir Sewem Stitchy is back in India where, I believe, he’s got a practice curing the sick and needy who love him, Jake Slyssum is in Budapest, doing nicely I believe, and Gamgy Stetharope has taken early retirement in one of the Stans, I forget which, where he enjoys fly-fishing.”

“Then who’s going to mend my tummy?” begged Gopher.

“There might be the odd nurse knocking about,” replied the tea-boy thoughtfully. “They’re always keen to do a bit on the side, nudge-nudge wink-wink, know what I mean?”

At that moment a nurse sidled up. She was a ravishing creature with skin the colour of a deep, rich chocolate and a smile to die for.

“Can I help you?” she asked, her voice as chocolatey as the texture of her visage.

“I need my tummy mending,” muttered Gopher, exposing his painful lump for all to see. “It bloody hurts, it does.”

“That’s not my department,” purred the nurse, “I’m in obstetrics, so if you were pregnant I might be able to ease things along a bit. But lumps like that with no baby involved, no.”

“What’s wrong with this hospital!” shouted Gopher as she wiggled her bottom as she strode off. “I need help!”

“It’s the austerity,” explained the tea-boy. “And the damned Brexit. But you’ll be okay, squire, just let me wash my hands … a lad has to have clean hands … and I’ll put you right… I’ve watched the best while they were sipping their Earl Grey and I reckon I’ve got the hang of it.”

“What? You?” gaped the Prime Minister’s husband.

“The same,” beamed the tea-boy, now just you lie down on this counter, I’ve a handy half-brick I can bash you with as anaesthetic and before you can say cuddly-duddly I’ll have you up and on your feet and raring to go!”

“No! It’s better already!” squawked Gopher, not so keen on half-bricks, but too late.

The tea-boy swung his half brick and the Prime Minister’s husband knew no more.

“Pity about that,” murmured the tea-boy after he detected a complete lack of pulse in Gopher’s wrist, “I reckon I could have got on all right with him, seemed to be a decent enough cove…”

And somewhere in the back of nowhere a trumpeter delicately sounded The Last Post and a shadow fell from the sky.

Meanwhile, the Prime Minister passed a law banning dentists from dentistry on anyone over 48.

© Peter Rogerson 25.05.17

Reviews

[Annette Pisano-Higley]

As a nurse, I just loved this satire! Clever and Kipling-esque. Social Darwinism called to account- survival of the fittest in these days of healthcare "reform"..."Pity about that"-Yes it certainly is! Great!

[SSKaitlyn]

I had that "Ooooh" moment at the end. There are some grammatical flaws, but all in all the story was good. It was intriguing, thoroughly, and the twist at the end was nice.
Well done.

[Peter Rogerson]

I'll have to chase up them there flaws, then, unless they're in speech. Thanks for your review and I'm about to slip onto your work.