Highland Fling - A Funny Chick Lit Romance (COMPLETE)

Disappointing the Doctor

Monday morning arrives, and I am there outside Dr McLatchie's surgery five minutes before she is due to open. I've spent the weekend sneezing, not sleeping and making tearful phone calls to Kelly and my mum, all of which I had to do outside in the howling wind. Yes, Friday's fine weather had lulled me into thinking all those stories people told about how much it rained in Scotland were an exaggeration.

They're not.

The doctor pulls up in her car ten minutes after the surgery is supposed to open. A Volvo estate screeches to a halt in front of me, barely missing the kerb. The door is flung open and a women pokes her head out.

"Sorry I'm late! Sheep on the road. You know what it's like around here."

I nod, then shake my head. No, I have no idea. But she isn't listening anyway. She pushes past me, keys jangling, and opens the door. The surgery looks nothing like any GP's surgery I've ever seen. If you'd walked up and down the street and someone said to you afterwards, "Where's the GP in Lochalsh?" you'd say, "No idea! I just walked past a lot of houses." The surgery is one of them, a neatly painted door and windows and a tiny sign outside that says Dr McLatchie & Partners. I have my suspicions that the partners do not exist. Certainly, as I follow her in, there is only one room off the hallway.

She opens the door and tells me to take a seat. I plonk myself on the chair. They seem to favour informality here. There is no desk, or hard-backed chair. Just two armchairs, a coffee table and a laptop. The doctor prods it and it opens. She pushes herself back into her armchair, folds her arms and beams at me.

"Well! I've never seen you before. Have ye come from a big city?"

I shake my head, and watch her face fall. She leans forward and picks up a notepad and pen.

"Ah well, never mind! What's your problem? Have ye got..." She takes the pen and points it at my crotch. I find myself crossing my legs and shaking my head furiously.

"Aw! So, no problems down below. That's a shame. I was hoping because ye were an outsider, ye'd have all kinds of—"

"No, no," I say quickly, anxious to stop this flight of thought, "I'm very allergic to cats. Do you have anything that can help?"

The doctor steeples her hands together and regards me seriously. Then, she bursts out laughing.

"Are ye... the wee lassie."

I can barely make out a word she says, she's laughing so hard. "So, you're the wee one who was at Kirsty's hoose, standing outside on Friday night because her cat was making you sneeze that hard?"

When I nod, she laughs so hard it takes her five minutes to recover. I sit back and rub my eyes. That is a hint by the way. I use less than subtle body language to say I am suffering and this is not a matter for hilarity.

"And ye've broken up from your boyfriend?"

The question is so unexpected, I agree straight away. What does that have to do with anything? Great Yarmouth is hardly the Great Metropolis, but I've never experienced nosiness on this scale. Is it unique to villages? And my previous love life has nothing to do with why I am currently sneezing like crazy.

"Stand on the scales!" she barks, and I obey, doing my habitual twist of my face to top of the room so I don't see the result.

"Ye're only 54 kilos!" There is a rustling as she flicks through one of books piled on the table. "It says here ye're allowed to be 56-62kgs! Are ye one of they anorexics?"

"Er, no. Just like this genetically. But can we get back to my real problem?"

"Aye, the sneezing. Did ye know that's where that nursery rhyme comes from—the ring a ring roses one?"