Prologue Part 3: GET OFF YOUR ARSE YOU FAT, SOON TO DIE BASTARD...

There are many things about having a 7 year old (particularly my particular 7 year old who is a total LEGEND) that are just fantastic, like smiles, games, Christmas, a totally legitimate excuse to exponentially expand your own childhood Lego stash and (some days) watching them getter smarter on an almost hourly basis. One of the unavoidable downsides to the whole business is that sooner or later they hang around other kids, who have spent time with other kids whose brothers Mum’s defacto’s sister spent some time with a kid who was sick. So they get sick. And then you get sick.

Which is why one day when my wife was busy doing something else, my daughter and I found ourselves at the surgery of the local GP looking very sorry for ourselves and hacking up green stuff in sufficient quantities to cause all the other people in the waiting room to actually push themselves through the walls in an effort to get away from us.

Now I’m not sure if there’s some kind of standard operating procedure that covers the presentation of 40+ year old males to your standard semi-rural Doctors Surgery. I’m assuming however, they don’t get their hands on us as often as they would like because once she had spent 38 seconds diagnosing our shocking chest infections and another 25 seconds writing up prescriptions for a bucket load of anti-biotics (and probably taking into account my crap blood pressure, triple digit pulse and really quite alarming BMI) she ordered one of every blood test she could think of.

Next day they rang me back. Which is never that good. There was a lot of red on those printouts. And she was very polite and I’m in a position to know what all those red numbers actually meant and I really really shouldn’t have needed to be told and LOOK, is that a 7 year old child you’d like to see graduate high school? Is it?

Get off your arse you fat, soon to die, bastard.....

NEXT: CUE ROCKY MUSIC