The other day I went to see my doc. There was something amiss with my old reliable – body – 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, I’ve done my share of philosophy (as you should know by now) and I do not subscribe to that business about your body being “all in the mind”. 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: “Doc, I don’t smoke”. This was definitely the ideal cover, whatever else he was going to accuse me of, he couldn’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 wasn’t average, because John Rodger, my bird, died. The week before wasn’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 can’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 didn’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. “But Doc,” I wheedled, “what about these strange pains?” “Eat more fibre,” was all he said, presenting me with a handsome bill.
So, in his honour, the perfect Bloody Mary recipe, filled with fibre – 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.