The other day I went to see my doc. There was something amiss with my old reliable â€“ body â€“ that is. It was not enjoying the merry life quite as much as I was, and I knew I should intervene before it got out of hand. You see, Iâ€™ve done my share of philosophy (as you should know by now) and I do not subscribe to that business about your body being â€œall in the mindâ€. Rather, I think the mind is all in the body. I put everything else there, so why should it not be?
Now, I was prepared for the speech. You know the one, about lifestyle, about punishing the body, about the changes I was supposed to make. But I had my answer ready, the perfect alibi: â€œDoc, I donâ€™t smokeâ€. This was definitely the ideal cover, whatever else he was going to accuse me of, he couldnâ€™t pin that vice on me, and I was about to remind him of it all the way. I would get off, as they say in the legal realms, on a technicality.
So just before going into his room, while sitting in the reception area (they really should have mini-bars in these places, they already have the potential waitresses), I was trying to work out just how many drinks I consume in an average week. Last week wasnâ€™t average, because John Rodger, my bird, died. The week before wasnâ€™t average, because there was too much television coverage of our rugby teams being drubbed. I think the week before may have been average, but I canâ€™t remember it at all.
I was still doing the maths when I found myself in front of a strangely quiet doc. He listened to my story; his face barely registering emotion when I mentioned I didnâ€™t smoke (was he trying to double-bluff me?), and when I blurted out that I may have about three drinks a night (you have to average these things out when you talk to medical men), he seemed unfazed.
After prodding and poking around, and asking some questions which, though I found them rather irrelevant, did reassure me of his character (like how to make the perfect martini), declared that I was in striking health. â€œBut Doc,â€ I wheedled, â€œwhat about these strange pains?â€ â€œEat more fibre,â€ was all he said, presenting me with a handsome bill.
So, in his honour, the perfect Bloody Mary recipe, filled with fibre â€“ just make sure you eat the celery:
1 1/2 measures vodka
1 small tin tomato juice
A squirt lemon juice
7 drops Worcestershire sauce
3 drops Tabasco sauce
Several shakes of freshly ground pepper
1 dash of celery salt
Freshly grated horseradish
Stir with ice; pour into a glass filled with ice. Garnish with slice of celery.