An Impatient Patient

'She's not a very good patient, is she?' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'I'm not sure I would be either, with a chicken sitting on my head,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Mrs Slocombe, why are you sitting on the patient's head?'

Mrs Slocombe has a look of intense concentration on her face.
'I'm trying to insert her medication in her ear,' she says. 'And I have to say, she isn't being very receptive.'

Too right I'm not. Ever since the girls offered to nurse me through my malaise, I'm not sure if I've benefitted from their ministrations or not.

'But you had to look after each of us last year,' they protested, when I said I was sure I could manage my symptoms on my own. 'And we want to repay the kindness.'

So I relented. I managed to stop them hoiking the hospital wing cage from the attic. They were very keen to turn it into an isolation unit. I pointed out I wouldn't fit.
'You would if you lost eight stones,' said Mrs Miggins.

And now, Mrs Slocombe has my head in a death-grip, and is trying to push one of my antibiotic tablets into my ear.
'I think she's meant to swallow it,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'Here, have a glass of water.'
'But it's for her ear infection,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'How's it going to know where to go if she swallows it? I mean, if she swallows it, it will be travelling away from the ear, won't it? Downwards, into the depth of her bowel.'

'It's the wonder of modern medication,' says Mrs Miggins. 'But I agree we should be taking a more topical approach to the treatment of her ear.'

'Ah, now,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I've been consulting my herbal remedy book, and I've found two things we could try.'
'Explain away,' says Mrs Miggins.

I push Mrs Slocombe off my head and she lands with a thump and a fart on the floor.

'Option One,' says Mrs Pumphrey, trailing her wing feathers down the stained and grainy pages of an ancient herbal remedy tome, 'is to roast an onion and then push it in the ear.'
'You are not shoving an onion in my ear,' I say.
'It'll be roasted,' says Mrs Miggins. 'It'll be nice and soft.'
'And warm,' adds Mrs Slocombe.
'I care not,' I say. 'My ear already feels full enough as it is, thank you.'

'How do you get a peanut out of your ear?' asks Mrs Slocombe, never one to miss a comedy moment.
'I don't know,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'How do you get a peanut out of your ear?'
'Pour in some chocolate and it'll come out a Treat!' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Ahahahahahaha!!'

(Of course, the success of this joke relies on you having prior knowledge that you used to be able to get chocolate covered peanut sweets called Treats. Can you still get them? I have no idea. I gave up on peanut based chocolate sweets when they changed Marathons into Snickers.)

'And Option Two?' says Mrs Miggins.
'Is to take a slice of bread, cut off the crusts and smother with crushed caraway seeds,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'And then apply to the ear as a poultice.'
'Why do you have to cut the crusts off?' I say. 'Surely bread is bread is bread?'
'It does sound weird,' admits Mrs Miggins.
'I have a theory about this,' says Mrs Pumphrey, for although we are talking herbal remedy here, she does like to back up her findings with some scientific evidence.

Mrs Pumphrey continues. 'I think it's all to do with curly hair,' she says. 'My Granny used to say that eating the crusts of your bread makes your hair grow curly.'
'My Gran used to say that, too,' I say.
'Must be true then,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'So, if the crusts were left on the bread, and the poultice applied to your ear, then all the hairs in your ear would grow curly. This, in turn, would cause further distortion in the hearing, as the sound waves would be bouncing of a curved surface and entering the inner ear in a curly fashion. Also,' she continues, as I open my mouth to voice my suspicion of this scientific evidence, 'everyone knows that curly hair takes up more space than straight hair, thereby adding to its insulating properties and...'

'I'm going to stop you there,' I say. 'Because although I can kind of see your thought process in this matter, it is all irrelevant because none of you are coming anywhere near me with either an onion, a slice of bread or a crushed caraway seed. Now give me my antibiotics and that glass of water and go and make me a cup of tea. That would be the most useful thing.'

'Oh,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'I was going to play you a few tunes on my ukelele. To cheer you up.'

She looks so disappointed, standing there with an onion in one wing and a ukelele in the other, that I agree.

I mean, no matter how ill your feel, no matter how whistley, and hummy and deaf your ear, it would be a sad day indeed if you refused to let one of your chickens play her ukulele for you to make you feel better. Wouldn't it?