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Here are the results from the Lancaster jury

  Thu 26th January 2012

I go to the doctor's ready to receive a well-meant homily about my drinking, and more worryingly, the results of a liver test.

My attractive doctor crosses her legs in the same skirt she was wearing last time I saw her. A picture of Denise crossing her legs in her mauve miniskirt fetches up unbidden in my mind, before I snap back into a serious patient-professional pose with my fingers crossed attentively on my thighs. I have been highly satisfied recently with the Skirt Hem-Thigh Interface Standards attained within my local NHS and I have written to the Head of Boxes, suggesting that it should be added as a Key Performance Indicator.

We leave the topic in an amicable truce. My concessions are that yes, I do have a psychological dependence on alcohol and that I will "think about" what she's said.

We then turn to the substance of the matter: my liver test. She breezes through the results. She shows me some figures and compares them to the expected ranges in the next column. I'm about median for everything, save on one parameter in which I am one unit above the expected range. "But I've seen that in people who don't drink at all, so there's nothing to worry about there."

"I hope you don't think I was lecturing you," she says. "Not at all. I appreciate it's something that a responsible health professional would want to discuss," then wondered whether that sounded patronising.

In the afternoon, I take my youngest, Melanie, to Kendal to have her eyes checked. The opthalmist is wearing a black knee-length skirt with three buttons at the waist, below which it splays into a vent or a very wide pleat. It's a good idea but the material is wrong, too thick, possibly too much wool, and it isn't sharp enough to hold the boxiness of the skirt. It wavered slightly at the hem and revealed a centimetre of black underskirt. A straight pleat would have been better.

Afterwards, me and Melanie walk into Kendal and have a late dinner in Wetherspoons. Usual Wetherspoons stunt of advertising beer which is isn't for sale. Both Sporran Warmer and Red McGregor (it was Burns Night yesterday) were off. "You could turn the pump clips round" I suggest. "They're stuck on with sellotape", she replies. An hour later, the clips are still on display, yet neither beer is on. Melanie is good company, drawing and luxuriating in her free time, as was her dad.

A huge blob of a waitress comes up to take our plates away. "You did well with that," she says to Melanie. I jump tactlessly in. "I don't know where she puts it that one. She must have hollow legs." Blob thinks. "You don't know where she puts it." Oops. I've drawn attention to her size.

The train pulls up at Lancaster and we witness commuters red in tooth and claw, end-of-day robots programmed for a competition for seating. "Can we get off?" I exclaim, adding "for fuck's sake," casting my moral advantage onto the ballast.

I've had to put the captcha back on for commenting I'm afraid. It took a spammer from Brazil all of fifteen minutes to start graffitying.


Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

Yeah - liver tests, let’s not talk about them… when I hit rehab they did the usual suite of tests, there was one saving grace on my liver tests which were to quote the doctor they dragged in for this “I’ve seen corpses with better results” - great bedside manner! Still I suppose you should expect it once you’ve put yourself into their care. The saving grace was that the guy who went in same day as me broke their all time record for the worse results ever… to be fair he looked utter shit and was struggling to stay in reality

Thu 26th January 2012 @ 04:05
Comment from: [Member]

i didn’t have to wait for a lecture from the doctor about my drinking. it was my liver itself that screamed at me… only drinking on weekends these days (after my 2 week christmas holiday beer-bash).

Thu 26th January 2012 @ 05:03
Comment from: ISBW [Visitor]

Your attention to the minutiae of female sartorial expression is appreciated over here. I never imagine most men notice whether my skirt is above, at or three feet below my knees, much less that one or two out there might just note the texture and hang of a particular fabric. Thanks for looking.

Thu 26th January 2012 @ 06:03

looby, I think that you may be a tad obsessed with skirts, thighs and their interaction.
You should do a Thesis on it.

“The erogenous effects of a woollen hem in close juncture to the silken skin of a gleaming thigh; with special consideration to the desiderata of high denier nylon”

Fri 27th January 2012 @ 16:22
Comment from: [Member]

DF: Well done, that’s self-control. I was in a pub last Christmas and a good friend said, half jokingly half seriously, “I’m going to have to knock it on the head, I’m getting these stabbing pains in my kidneys.” I couldn’t help laughing.

ISBW: Thank you, I greatly appreciate that comment. I love looking, and being looked at, and I think people who dress “practically” are missing out of one of life’s greatest social pleasures. I assume that all hetero men must notice what attractive women wear, although this doesn’t seem to be the case. And yet, when you show an interest in women’s clothes, people think you’re gay!

TSB: Right, I’m back to my PhD, with a new title, although it sounds as though you’ve already done some research into this yourself. Lots of case studies will be required of course.

Fri 27th January 2012 @ 16:50

“Lots of case studies will be required of course.
OOoooohhhh. *subsides into steaming fantasies of hems, buttons and gleaming sweaty thighs*

Sat 28th January 2012 @ 00:56

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