Fleeing the surgeon

I have been forcibly dragged to the evil pox doctor of this parish five times in the last month. Five times!

Some four weeks ago I was viciously assaulted by one of the Albanian gangster toms that regularly patrols my neighbourhood. It's bad enough being forced to share my street with the hordes of chavscum moggies that lurk behind every shrub, but the Albanian villains clearly need taking in hand by the bobbies.

I had popped out briefly for my regular early morning constitutional and was enjoying the fresh dawn air when the Albanian ambushed me from the side and sank his fangs into my left shoulder. I valiantly fought him off but by the time I had staggered home with blood pouring from my injuries I was close to my deathbed.

Fortunately, She Who Controls the Can Opener noticed things were amiss and put me in my sedan basket and whisked me off to the local Sweeney Todd, who promptly shaved my leg, poured chloroform over my nostrils and performed emergency surgery. My injury was poisoned, no doubt with ricin, and I hovered at the gates for several hours before I was given the all-clear and SWCTCO returned me to my hearth.

Several follow-up appointments were required in order to restore me to full health. I have been forced to put a price on the Albanians' heads as it is cheaper than visits to the pox doctor and less unpleasant.

To add to my indignity, I now discover I have an infestation. Of fleas, no less. This required yet another trip by sedan to Mr Todd's surgery. This neighbourhood is going to the mange-ridden curs, I tell you.