diagnosis

Thumbs up for the gammon. Not too sweet, surprising that, considering the gross annual dentist's income of cola it was cooked in. Not overwhelmingly wondrously good, but certainly edible. The Fortnum's Christmas chutney from dahling borrowed Uncle Bob helped.

Thumbs sideways and wavering for our gerbils. I hope and I hope that I'll be able to don that toga and give the gerbils a resolute thumbs up to live. We've had them since Saturday and took one to the vet today. The pet shop paid the bill, however they gave us the choice of vet visit or gerbil return. The gerbils have their tunnel here, remember. I don't know what would happen to mister sneezy red bogies (mebbe a cold, mebbe an allergy) once absorbed back into the pet shop monolith, so here he stays. He's a gentle soul. They are good gerbils, the vet concurred.

G took them for their vet visit, spooling the possible diagnoses tickertape into my distracted ears. I could hear the vet's faded scottish burr form the words G relayed to me, with his very syntax. I could see his dark to greying hair and his glasses, his confidence and reassurance, his prescription pad.

It wasn't until I went to smear Zig's eczemaed arms with his latest cream that I realised my head-vet wasn't our ginger, white cat-disliking vet at all, but our doctor. Well, their practices are on the same road, thought there is a little less poo in front of the docs. What's a species between patients?