Le bedside manner

I took my son to the doctor's today, to have five stitches taken out of his knee. The stitches were the legacy of the swimming pool stairs at Q. Plage, which had an exposed sharp edge. The pool remained open following the accident and the dramatic intervention of the pompiers, complete with fire engine (shame hubski and not I was on duty that day). I asked a lifeguard a few days later if the stairs had been fixed, and was told that it was 'impossible' to repair them before the autumn as it would mean draining the pool and just in case I got any funny ideas 'c'est pas moi, c'est la direction qui prend responsabilité'. To my surprise, the next day the pool was closed and the stairs were replaced. I don't think it was my intervention that prompted the change of policy. Probably someone cut an artery.

This morning I noticed that two of the stitches had become infected, and when we got to the doctor's surgery I saw that he was being replaced by a stagiare, who looked to be about 21. My first, uncharitable, thought was that she didn't look up the task of doing battle with my son, who is a formidable opponent for any doctor even without infected stitches. I sat hesitating in the waiting room for a few minutes, and then, remembering how I resented the judgements that were handed down to me when I arrived in France, aged 24 but looking 17, decided to go through with it.

My heart sank when it came to our turn. She had the standard French doctor's unsmiling formality, which to them projects the message 'Trust me I'm a professional', but in practice means 'I am always right and you are always a cretin.' Sure enough, my request for a painkiller was brushed aside. So was any suggestion that the wound was infected. To the operating table!

To her credit, she did attempt a little English. 'No! It don't 'urt.' The only reward she got for this added service was 'Yes it doooes!' Never work with children or animals.

She resorted to the tried-and-tested way of calming a hysterical child that I remember so well from the halte garderie - shouting. "Eh! Oh! Il faut arreter!' I was irresistabley reminded of the way my 15-year old stepdaughter talks to my son when a playfight degenerates. She then did my all-time least favourite teen-queen gesture. She blew at her fringe. Then, with one stitch to go, she jumped up and said 'Je peux plus là'.

Finally it was over and I got him down, trying to ignore the 4-year-old-size ring of sweat (that's his entire body) that had been left on the table as we pinned him there.

The parting shot? 'Well, we could have given him an an anesthetetic, but it's a patch and it would have taken an hour to work.'

Thank you so much for discussing all the options with me.

All was forgotten ten minutes later thanks to the gift of ice-cream, and a beer for mummy (thanks for the disapproving glances, I'm sure it was the wrong time of day for a beer).

Only three weeks to go until the ferry.