Armistice Day 2010 NEWS FLASH! Lovely Renate Kraus on the volcanic Canary Isle of Tenerife 'phones the Lower House of Windsor’s Word Factory to invite Ambassador for the Disabled Ross Smith, his Polish-born carer and Cressroads' town hack Blogsbody to enjoy a winter break seeing in New Year 2011 at renowned, purpose-built Mar-y-Sol, popular spa for the disabled and managed by Renate in the year-round sunshine of Spain’s ocean island resort of Los Christianos.

And that, Birthday Girl, leaves only the first half-dozen days of Yuletide yet to reconcile, after your Poppa Mike places an order for a traditionally decorated, well-liquored, marzipanned and iced fruit cake from the kitchen of the Arms of Tichborne earlier today, and wonders what plans Richard and yourself have finalized for the festive time?

Within the next month, Cressroads Surgery will run two further blood tests, after agreeing your father‘s popping of more than a million milligrams of Glucosamine Chondroitin over the past 24 months has proven itself to be of benefit only to the financial coffers of assorted manufacturers of a waste of alleged alternative medicine for lubricating the creaking joints of millions of pensioners relieved of upwards of £7.59 every 40 days for a placebo of an imagined nutritional supplement.

Thanks a bunch, moonlighting, golden hands Doc Green.

Now helped to survive an early retirement with spoils earned from his out-of-surgery hours spent administering physiotherapy to billionaire Russian-owned Chelsea FC, between dismissing the cause of your father’s developing aches and pains as the consequence of his ‘too many birthdays’.

Meanwhile, the jury remains out on the wisdom of Cressroads’ town hack continuing to risk aching muscles, cataracts, renal failure, more strokes and heart attacks by popping a 20-mg, film-coated pink Simvastatin tab for his cholesterol, before going to his bed each night.

Yes, Keeks, all these years after a mini-stroke saw my jaw drop for a few days and longer for the dribble to dry up, Dr Beanstokes, did-he-but-know-it, agreed with your adopted Aunty Jean’s years of nursing experience and realized a need to book me in for a long overdue readout by electrocardiogram.

And as relieved as anyone to learn, no harm done, after Cressroads’ Nurse Lindsay pronounced soulless Blogsbody’s maligned old ticker to be in A1 order for its septuagenarian vintage.

But it is in the spirit of necessity as well as Armistice Day, that Blogsbody has made peace with the town’s general practice and it with him.

Each prepared to accept the other’s shortcomings on Cressroads’ Station Road in the self-styled watercress capital of the world.

And hear thee, hear thee, daughter, the passing of a Prizebyte corporate threat to end its pro bona months of hosting the website for the Continuing Story of Cressroads.

After a 48-hour stay of execution for Firkin Henry poked his head around the door of the Arms of Tichborne – never fully recovered from your days of managing the Hogshire village boozer for ex-Concorde flight attendant Janie Day – to witness a shaking of the hands between long-suffering host and silver-haired hack given a ‘deadline’ of seven more months to complete all copy for a first-edition of his little-earner in support of young Ross Smith’s registered Just Different charity for the disabled within the next seven months.

This past Monday early evening’s meeting at the Arms ended with a repeat telling of the continuing tale of your older brother Matthew’s birth in the 1976 International Year of the Child.

It was resurrected for all to share in the waiting-room of Cressroads surgery three days ago.

So picture, Keogh, the silent scene of long-suffering misery disturbed by your father’s entrance as he spots the town’s retired, Belfast-born pharmacist Robin Good next in line to be seen by Doc Beanstokes.

“You bad, robbin’ chemist, you … “

“ … and no, Michael, they still don't have your late good lady's size in stock."

After the pair of us remembered aloud the detail of a Saturday morning, home from the county hospital maternity unit in Winchester, when your dear departed mother of a child bride dispatched her gallant middle-aged husband to the pharmacy in Alresford-on-Arle for his first ever purchase of ST’s.

His knowing no better than to call out for sanitary towels with all of their vowels, and then to make matters worse for a pharmacy up to its shampoos in Saturday morning blue-rinsers: “Size, you ask? After watching all that’s gone down this week, the missus desperately requires the largest you stock.”

“Next, please,” a not too bemused Dr Beanstokes caught the coarse pay-off between the two of his pensioned patients in waiting.

To be continued -

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