Thursday 22nd June 1989   Morning surgery 11:00

“My hairdresser sent me.”
“Did she, now?” My Dad looked less than impressed.
“She thinks that I have got a small skin cancer on my right ear.”
My Dad laughed.” Does she, now?”
“Yes, she does.” Mrs Neville looked disdainfully down her nose at us. “It keeps bleeding.”
“Hmm . . . She’s probably just nicked you with her scissors. Anyway, how’s that cough?”
“It’s better, thank you.”
“And the breathing?” My Dad continued.
“Back to normal, now.”
“Excellent, I will check your blood pressure. Let’s have your arm.” My Dad picked up his blood pressure cuff and reached for Mrs Neville’s arm.
“Don’t you want to look at my ear?”
“Your ear?”
“Yes, that’s what I have come about. My hairdresser . . .”
“Mrs Neville, I really don’t have time for all this!”
“Well, I’m not leaving until you have had a look.”
My Dad sighed. He got up and went to have a closer look. There was a small, pink nodule on the top of Mrs Neville’s right ear. My Dad tilted his head slightly. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His face reddened. He bent forward and peered more closely. He squeezed the nodule between his finger and thumb. He coughed uncomfortably.
“I think she’s right, Mrs Neville, I think she’s right.”
My Dad sat down. He looked thoroughly unhappy. He explained to Mrs Neville that he would refer her urgently to the Ear, Nose and Throat specialist. She smiled smugly.

As Mrs Neville went out, my Dad looked at me. “That poor woman has got an awful haircut, Dennis.”

“My hairdresser sent me.”
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