Writing about intrusive intimacy in my obit for Dr Kate Granger [see above] reminded me of a story I heard while recently changing the guard at Pat the Salt's palace place. To my mind one of the real peculiarities of medicine is that there is a Master of Holles Street and the other maternity hospitals in Dublin. Until recently the Master invariably had a penis. I'll have to write soon about Rhona Mahony [R, right outside her bailiwick], the current master, because right now she doesn't even have an entry in Wikipedia. I've never had to visit an Obstetrician and Gynaecologist but my informant last weekend has . . . many times. Childbirth is a bitch, man. Her assessment is that Ob &b Gyn men stand out as being suave, affable and confident; if no less brusque than other consultants [time is money - got to get on]. But they, more than other doctors, require an additional layer of distance lest they get a lawyer's letter slapped on them for real or imagined or misunderstood malpractice. Sexual shenanigans are much more likely to get you struck off the register than removing the wrong kidney in surgery. On the other hand, it's just more efficient if you can carry on the diagnostic conversation at the same time as you are busy down there. At a recent visit, after covering the incontinence, the hormones and the discomfort . . .
Le Vertical: "Are you sexually active?" La Horizontal: "This is as good as it gets."
She felt him stiffen. And no, no, not in that way!