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itsmeagain

Continue the story game 3.

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she found him what he was... utterly repulsive. 

He lay there, whispering "hello sweetie", and making clucking sounds. His left eye kept shutting and opening. "Are you winking, or does Dr Opto. Metrist need to.... 

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check you out? It can be a symptom of something quite serious, you know, especially when accompanied by uncontrollable gagging noises. You look a very funny colour. '

Martin, a confirmed hypochondriac, looked alarmed. 

'You're not experiencing any ...

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in a place you would normally expect a swelling. 'Could I have a tumor, do you think? Would you take a look, nurse?' Martin asked shakily.

Nurse Ratchet did a mental eye roll.

'You need to wait until Dr Omg can examine you, Mr Smith. But it is possible to develop tumors on your ...

 

(don't be naughty, Sean :giggle2:)

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hand, if engaged in cancer related activities. "

" A lady at my mum's church has declared that fiddling with fuchsias is deleterious to one's health ", she said, keeping a straight face. 

Martin said " Oh I wouldn't think I have a tumour then. No fuchsias in my garden", and at that, Dr:P

Edited by itsmeagain

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Omg strode in, took one look at Martin's chart and burst out laughing.

'Well, well, well ... what have we been getting up to in our spare time then, Mr Smith? Seems a strange place to be attempting to ...

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"It was my idiotic friend Dave" Jackie " Jacklin." 

"To be fair he dropped my LP  and then let me trip over a book, impaling myself on the shattered remains of my best Bee Gees album. 

The fact that I have a penchant for women in uniform fussing over me, is just coincidence", and, with a knowing wink, Martin succeeded in annoying Dr Omg so much that he said "You don't expect me to be removing shards of plastic from your butt do you sir?" 

It was with chagrin that Martin went home an hr later, clutching a special lavender soap, with which he must anoint the affected area thrice daily. 

"I don't like the doctor who.... 

Edited by itsmeagain

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examined me in hospital, Dave ... if you could call it an examination. The quack only got as far as looking at me chart and then sent me home with this stinky soap! He said I'd just have to wait until the bits of record worked their way out naturally. How's a man supposed to sit down comfortably with Best of  Bee Gees embedded in his nether regions? I ask you!! And as for the nurses ...

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well this cutie named Emma Ratchet, no good though despite her lovely dark eyes.. More interested in time, order, and being tidy, than assisting me to get better. 

I may even put a call through to the MP."

An hour later, Barnard B. Ebblenib, 21, was fielding questions from Martin, about what nurses have, and do not have, to do" to make a patient more comfy. You know Mister Ethical dibs, I really feel it was wrong of her to flirt and then say she's married,, like my masculine pride isn't gonna be impaired, nay shattered, by such... "

" Mr Smith, do calm down. I am the secretary, and bon viveur good omen, for Sylvia  Keaton, your great MP . How.... 

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do you think this concerns your MP?'

'What do you mean, you're a bombadier explosion? I want to talk to someone about abysmal treatment in a medical practice and you put me onto the bomb disposal unit!'

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noticing he'd thrown the lit match into his waste paper basket. It didn't catch the contents alight immediately, but rather smouldered away amongst the detritus, which included ...

Edited by poppy

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a pair of sweaty underpants, a spoon, and a half eaten marmite sandwich. 

Martin was thinking of having a bath, when a knock at the apartment door made him more rational again. 

Adjoining flat occupant, Edith Stribble, 74, looked concerned, not least due to Martin being wrapped in a towel..... 

Edited by itsmeagain

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'Great heavens, sonny! Go and make yourself respectable, this instant! No self respecting gentlemen answers the door clad merely in a moist towelette!'

'No. It's quite dry. I changed my mind about having a shower.'

'That's a pity, you look and smell like one's well overdue. But I didn't come here to ascertain your hygiene habits. Are you aware that ...

'

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black, acrid smoke swirls are polluting my little kitchenette, with its sun-dried  tomatoes, it's plum duff and it's hummus with sriracha pickle and eggplant mayo sandwiches? Are you burning something? "

A swirl of smoke suddenly 

Edited by itsmeagain

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enveloped their heads.

'Of course I'm not! Can't a man sit down to a relaxing cheroot after a hard days work without some old biddy forever harrassing him about a mere whiff of smoke!'

'Well, what's that inferno in your rubbish bin then? It's starting to ...

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heat up your kitchen. I can see the conflagration from here". Martin shut the door in Edith's less than pleasant face and ran to the smouldering bin, stinking of burning marmite and smouldering undergarments. 

"My God, the damage a discarded lit match can do", he mused rhetorically. 

Edith had departed when he opened the door. 

He shut the door and lay on his bed. Thirty minutes later, Sam Curmudgeonly, 65, was disturbed by loud honking, rasping snoring. 

Solange Boulanger, his neighbour, got drips of soapy water through into her living room, where she was giving French lessons to David Beetroot, 42.

"Now Davide, this is a French letter". 

The envelope soon got drips of thick white liquid on it, and it was soapy water. "Who lives.... 

Edited by itsmeagain

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upstairs that dares to befoul zee French letter of la plume de ma tante! Sacre bleu! I vill have ses entrailles pour les jarretières! Aller, Aller! Find zis fiend of ...

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the Sam Hill's that?' shouted Martin, and without waiting for a reply,  'Go away!' Snores could be heard resuming.

'Imbécile! Crétin!' muttered Mme Boulanger. 'Davide! Find me zee numbear of zee landlord, tout de suite, before zee whole ...'

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bloque d'apartemente is consumed by zis...mess!!"

Sam Curmudgeonly declared that he was keen on anti 😴 snoring devices, did David know any that he could buy, then give to poor old Martin? 

" After all, it's not.... 

Edited by itsmeagain

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his fault that he snores. It can be quite dangerous, you know. There's a thing called sleep angular ... or maybe it's ganglia? ...something like that anyway. It's kind of like when your snores strangle you. I was reading about it the other day in the illustrious medical journal I subscribe to, The Monthly Catheter, and it was saying ...

 

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a man named Bede Alnwick has devised an anti snoring device. Can you try getting him one. David? "

" Well who on earth are you? I never met you and here  you are attempting to get me to buy devices for snorers. Buy it yourself... Hello? Mr Squiller? 

It's David Beetroot.. Yes.. A bloke called Martin is flooding my flat with suds as I discuss French letters with Solange.... 

Edited by itsmeagain

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'You must have the wrong number. We don't deal with people coming to us with salacious tales. Be off with you before I report you to the police for making obscene phone calls!' and he slammed the phone in David's ear.

'Davide! Davide! Aidez-moi! La plaster of the ceiling est descendement!'

There was a sudden loud crash and ...

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into the living room occupied by David Beetroot, came hurtling an iron bathtub, replete with a gallon and a fifth of soapy water. Plaster everywhere, David and Solange escaped to the kitchen, only to receive a knock from a man in a bath towel.. "Sorry I think my bath just descended into your living room. 

Can you confirm?" 

Edited by itsmeagain

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