Sister went ahead while Wilt silently promised himself that if he didn't suffocate first or burst he would wipe the smile off that sadistic doctor's face just as soon as this ghastly experience was over. By the time it was Wilt's condition prevented him from doing anything except moan feebly. Only the Sister's suggestion that perhaps to be on the safe side they ought to give him an oil enema into the bargain provided him with the strength to state his case.
'I came here to have my penis attended to,' he whispered hoarsely.
The doctor consulted his record sheet 'It doesn't make any mention of your penis here,' he said. 'It states quite clearly that...'
'I know what it states,' squeaked Wilt. 'I also know that if you were forced to go into a waiting-room filled with middle-class mothers and their skateboard-suicidal sons and had to announce at the top of your voice to that harridan there that you needed stitches in the top of your prick you'd have been less than reluctant to do it.'
'I'm not standing here listening to a lunatic call me a harridan,' said the clerk.
'And I wasn't standing out there shouting the odds about what had happened to my penis for all the bloody world to hear. I asked to see a doctor but you wouldn't let me. Deny that if you can.'
'I asked you if you had broken a limb, suffered a wound that required '
'I know what you asked me,' yelled Wilt, 'don't I just. I can quote it word for word. Well, for your information a penis is not a limb, not in my case anyway. I suppose it comes into the category of an appendage and if I'd said I had damaged my appendage you'd have asked me which one and where and how and on what occasion and with whom and then sent me round to the VD clinic and...'
'Mr Wilt,' interrupted the doctor, 'we are extremely busy here and if you come and refuse to state exactly what is wrong with you...'
'I get a fucking stomach-pump stuffed down my gullet for my pains,' shouted Wilt. 'And what happens if some poor bugger who is deaf and dumb comes in? I suppose you let him die on the waiting-room floor or whip his tonsils out to teach him to speak up for himself in future. And they call this the National Health Service. It's a fucking bureaucratic dictatorship. That's what I call it.'
'Never mind what it's called, Mr Wilt. If there is something really the matter with your penis we're quite prepared to look at it.'
'I'm not,' said the admissions clerk firmly, and disappeared through the curtains. Wilt lay back on the couch and removed his pants.
The doctor observed him cautiously.
'Mind telling me what you've got wound round it?' he asked.
'Bloody handkerchief,' said Wilt and slowly untied the makeshift bandage.
'Good God,' said the doctor, 'I see what you mean about an appendage. Would it be asking too much to enquire how you got your penis into this condition?'
'Yes,' said Wilt, 'it would. Everyone I've told so far hasn't believed me and I'd rather not go through that drill again.'
'Drill?' asked the doctor pensively. 'You're surely not implying that this injury was inflicted by a drill? I don't know what you think, Sister, but from where I stand it looks as though our friend here had a rather too intimate relationship with a mincing machine.'
'And from where I lie it feels like it,' said Wilt. 'And if it will help to cut the bandage let me tell you that my wife was largely responsible.'
'Your wife?'
'Listen, doctor,' said Wilt, 'if it's all the same to you I'd just as soon not go into details.'
'Can't say I blame you,' said the doctor scrubbing his hands 'If my wife did that to me I'd
