When doctors have kids

‘Come along, children — we’re leaving now. Malaria! Stop teasing Hepatitis and get in the car. Melanoma, gather up your things, dear. You can sit in the front with me, Polyp. You’re a big boy now, aren’t you?

Now fasten your seat belts, everyone — we don’t want cerebral haemorrhages, do we?’

— Are we there yet?

— Are we there yet?

— Are we there yet?

‘No, not yet. That would be a misdiagnosis of what may turn out to be a fairly protracted gestation period.’

— I want the toilet!

‘But I told you to go before we left Grandma’s!’

— Yes, but I’m detecting strong afferent signals in my sacral preganglionic neurons. Does that not indicate that micturition is imminent?

‘Oh alright! Polyp, hand your sister the pisspot.’



The Doc asked me if I’d had any contact with frogs recently.

— What you mean?

— You know, frogs.

— Frogs.

— Yes, frogs. Ribbit, ribbit!


— Green chaps. Slimy.

Then he starts jumping up and down, skinny legs flexing like an Olympian. Across the floor —ribbit, ribbit! — onto a filing cabinet — ribbit, ribbit! — back to his desk — ribbit, ribbit!

— See? Frogs.

— No, I mean how recently is ‘recently’?