Tuesday 7th June

I took Hector to the vets this morning.

Vets, it turns out, are the modern face of organised crime.

Better known for using booby-bars, crack-houses and casinos as fronts for their nefarious activities, be under no illusion, the mob are alive and kicking and operating a walk in clinic at a surgery near you.

Don’t be fooled by the neat uniforms of the receptionists or their chilly smiles of indulgence as they conduct a welcoming appraisal of your meal-ticket, sorry, pet. They are simply wondering whether you are up for a ‘standard-robbing’ or whether you really do love the stupid mutt enough for them to crank the dial round to the ‘rob-‘em-blind’ setting.

I can’t say I wasn’t warned.

There was an old lady in the queue in front of me who was nearly in tears because she had apparently been charged over a hundred pounds just to have a ‘consultation’ (vet speak for ‘bring the gang, lunch is on me’) and some pills, (‘and let’s all go go-karting afterwards’) for her cat.

Anyhoo, I was whisked into a teeny-tiny room where there was a little girl in a scrubs costume. I smiled at her in a patient, friendly way because of course, I assumed she was the vet’s little girl and that the sweet little thing had been bought in with her parent on some sort of ‘bring your kid to work day’.

Fortunately, I didn’t slap her hand when she stuck a thermometer up Hector’s rectum because, and you’ll never believe it, she was the vet.

Colour me totally gob-smacked.

I’m pretty sure that her name is Daisy and that she came to call for Annabelle the week before last. Fast forward a fortnight, she’s got a veterinarian licence and is busily trying not to trip over her rather lengthy, adult sized trousers.

The upshot was that I was forced to take a hundred and thirty pound bath due to the fact that Hector needed inoculations. I think that Dress-Up-Daisy may have been squeaking about something else but have to admit that her Hannah Montana wrist-watch was distracting me.

I didn’t really get a chance to ask any questions and nor did I get an opportunity to explain why I was there in the first place. Any troubling concerns that I may have had were lost as she pulled out her mobile, checked an incoming text, broke into peels of giggles and, without looking up from her pink Blackberry, flapped her hand in my direction and told me to take him home, give him two paracetamol and tell him to put his feet up.

Cosmic.

Hustled back out into reception, I quickly realised that it is the God-Receptionists that run the show.

The Uzi’s and flick-knives are no doubt secreted about their persons as they monitor the punters going into and out of the ‘booths’.

Any attempt at resistance looked pretty futile so I paid the eye-watering bill, refused the lap-dance offered by the scantily clad hostess and legged it before the two burly bouncers by the door threatened to accompany me down the cash-point.

Going to the vets these days is no joke.

It sure is heading in that direction though.

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