Doctor On The Boil
Doctor On The Boil
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In Doctor on the Boil, Richard Gordon’s prescription in as effervescent and hilariously stimulating as ever.The work-shy Dr Grimsdyke is still at St Swithan’s – the same as ever despite the world having moved on around him. Nurses are hitching up their skirts in the name of fashion and the dean is almost certain he is to be knighted. And then a Rolls Royce pulls up at the hospital gates. In it is Sir Lancelot Spratt. Bored with retirement he has returned to invoke a clause in St Swithan’s original charter and resume his work – to the great dismay of just about everyone.
boy’. He cursed himself for making Luigi stop the photographer – and purely through his own big-headedness, he decided. It was only when he was walking with Stella through the lobby and said, ‘I’ll fetch the Rolls,’ that she seemed to cheer up. ‘Yes, do get it. I’d quite forgotten we came in a Rolls, lover man.’ As Terry turned towards the door, Grimsdyke came in. ‘Are you tailing me, or something?’ the student demanded angrily. ‘Good evening, Summerbee. Good evening, Stella,’ Grimsdyke said
‘Ah, Mr Cavendish is feeling better,’ said de Hoot with satisfaction. The actor greeted Grimsdyke warmly. ‘A great place this, Doc. Maybe more cramped than I’m used to–’ He indicated the small plain room. ‘But it’s doing me the power of good.’ ‘I’m afraid the nurses will have to attend you in pairs, Mr Cavendish,’ de Hoot told him sternly. ‘I do not wish to spoil our fun, but we must not outgrow our strength, must we? Remember, we are still convalescent, as it were.’ ‘Anything you say, Doc.
quickly, or he’ll never play the violin again”. And maybe the splash of blood and sweat dripping from the doctor’s brow.’ ‘Many a jolly laugh have I enjoyed over Sir Lancelot’s generous incisions,’ Grimsdyke agreed. ‘He’s a nineteenth-century surgical character, really. Can’t you see him in a frock-coat with threaded needles in the lapels? Advancing over the sawdust with an amputation-knife, as though he was going to fight a duel with the patient, not to save his life? Like a lot of people who
of comic metaphor is unimpaired by the seriousness of his aims’ – Punch ‘I wish some more solemn novelists had half Mr Gordon’s professional skills’ – Julian Symonds, Sunday Times Good Neighbours Dr Richard Gordon had no desire to leave the idyllic orchards and hop fields of Kent. For him the postcode BR1 2AX has the ring of the Gulag Archilpelago and is to be avoided at all costs. However after a decade living in suburbia he has come to love it – the way Gauguin loved Tahiti. Good Neighbours is
lifetime’s experience in making flesh creep. He said nothing about the charter. It would be more amusing simply to snatch a patient or two and let Bingham work it out afterwards. ‘What’s that contraption in the corner?’ he asked. ‘Electrified bingo?’ Bingham’s face took on a knowledgeable expression which Sir Lancelot found barely tolerable. ‘That contraption, as you call it, is connected to the central computer. The days are passing when we had to examine patients with our bare hands, assemble