Famous by Kate Langdon Page B

doctor.
    ‘He’s the head chef at Prego,’ answered Lizzie, adding for the doctor’s benefit, ‘It’s a very nice restaurant on Ponsonby Road. Fabulous food and service.’
    ‘You recommend it?’ asked the doctor.
    ‘Yes,’ replied Lizzie.
    ‘I see,’ repeated the doctor, making a note of the restaurant name on his pad. ‘So a chef made it?’
    ‘Yes,’ I replied, very close to tears. ‘We didn’t make it because we can’t cook for shit and we had to get a chef in. Now can you please for the love of God give me something to stop this itching? Or am I going to have to kill myself? And the both of you?’
    ‘Righty ho then,’ said the doctor, instructing me to lie up on the examination table as he closely peered at my cloak of welts and swollen bits.
    ‘I think you are having an anaphylactic reaction to something,’ was his verdict.
    This was confirmed after he consulted all of the medical journals in his office, every other doctor on duty, and some not on duty but at home sleeping.
    As I lay naked on the examination table, scratching myself all over and requesting that Lizzie put her French-manicured nails to use and start scratching me too, the doctor informed me that I needed an injection of adrenaline.
    ‘Okay,’ I replied. If he’d said a good rogering from himself would cure me I would have said okay too. Anything to stop the itching.
    Lizzie, who had been a pillar of sanity and grown-up-ness, crumbled into a fit of hysterical giggles at the sight of the needle approaching my naked, welt-covered body.
    ‘Ow!’ I complained, as the needle pierced the inflamed skin on my right arm.
    ‘There you go,’ said the doctor, motioning for me to hop off the table. ‘That should take away the blotches and the swelling. But if you have any problems I want you to ring me. And I am giving you a prescription for a strong antihistamine,’ said the doctor, writing on his pad.
    ‘C’mon Rudolph,’ said Lizzie. ‘Let’s get you home. I’ll come and stay at your place tonight, just to keep an eye on you.’
    On the way out we woke Jasper, who had passed out in one of the plastic waiting-room chairs, and put him into a taxi, before ringing Mands with an update. She said that everyone had finally vacated her apartment, including an incredibly drunk Simon who had managed to smash her favourite Nest vase on his exit.
    ‘Fucking arsehole!’ she screeched.
    ‘I hope he cut himself?’ said Lizzie eagerly.
    ‘Yes, twice,’ confirmed Mands. ‘But unfortunately nothing was severed.’
    ‘What a crying shame,’ said Lizzie, shaking her head.
    The next day Mands and I phoned Manuel who deduced (after listing the hundred herbs and spices he had used in the meal) that it was probably Tahitian vanilla beans I was allergic to, which he had used in the vild muzroom vice.
    Oh well, at least it was something exotic, I consoled myself, and not mangy old peanuts.

    Monday morning came around and I was undeniably still suffering from the weekend’s events. Though the welts and swelling had settled down significantly, I still looked remarkably like a human patchwork quilt. Thankfully the itching had subsided and I no longer felt it necessary to run around completely naked. To top off my suffering my first meeting of the day was with Trixie and Davis. We were meeting about shampoo. Again.
    ‘Well…we’ve been thinking…’ began Trixie.
    Well at least that was a start, I thought to myself. Lord knew that didn’t happen often.
    ‘…about the shampoo,’ continued Davis.
    Bless. It looked like they were really going to be on the ball today.
    ‘We all know that shampoo is silky…’ said Trixie.
    ‘…and soft…and blah blah,’ finished Davis.
    ‘Agreed,’ I replied.
    ‘But that’s sort of well…’
    ‘…been done,’ finished Trixie.
    ‘Right again,’ I replied.
    Why did they always have to finish each other’s sentences? I wondered.
    It appeared that neither of them was capable of starting a sentence