Going to the doctor's.

The last time that I paid a visit to a doctor in this country must have been about 30 years ago.  I've registered with a surgery here and have already had to pay a visit to the rather simple building that appears to be older than it actually is.  I was to be seen by a doctor who, whenever he called out for his next patient, could never remember which room he was in, much to the patients' in the waiting room amusement.

By the time he had called me in to his room I was in front of his door when he finally added ".......room 6" over the intercom.  I was greeted by Dr Kapoor, a short man with an incredibly shiny, bald head, from somewhere in south Asia.  After a few questions, I was asked if I minded if Dr Kapoor touched my stomach.  Well, if a doctor needs to poke my stomach to give me a diagnosis, then I'm used to them going ahead and doing it.  So I jumped up on the bed and waited to be prodded.

"Would you mind lifting up your shirt, please?"

Ah, yes, this doctor has lovely manners.

"Would you mind undoing your belt, please?"

This is just weird.  Just poke and prod me, will you - they all do in Belgium.

I was then asked if I would mind peeing into the tiniest pee-pot that I had ever seen, yet managed perfectly without peeing all over my fingers.  Dr Kapoor tested the sample and prescribed me some pills and I feel reassured to tell you that I am not pregnant.