Life Begins At Forty

"Come in and sit down," he said. "You're not allergic to dogs are you?"
"Not as far as I know."

I stared at the two bulldogs lying by the corner of his desk and they stared back at me.

"What seems to be the problem?"
"Catarrh," I said. "I'm completely bunged up. I have been for about two weeks now. Can't seem to shake it off."

He came out from behind his desk with a flashlight and peered into my nostrils.

"You certainly are," he agreed. He didn't bother looking in my ears or throat.

"How old are you?"
"Forty two," I said.

He shrugged. "Well what the Hell do you expect? If you have got a car that has done 42,000 miles you've got to expect things to go wrong and bits to start dropping off."

I was shocked. The bulldogs weren't.

He scribbled on a pad. "Look," he said, digging deep into his vast reserves of bedside manner, "anyone who tells you that life begins at 40 is either an idiot or, if you'll pardon my language, a f***ing liar."

He handed me the prescription. I thanked him. On the way out I looked over at the two bulldogs. They were still staring at me.

One of them winked.