Doctor On The Boil
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In Doctor on the Boil, Richard Gordon’s prescription in as effervescent and hilariously stimulating as ever.The work-shy Dr Grimsdyke is still at St Swithan’s – the same as ever despite the world having moved on around him. Nurses are hitching up their skirts in the name of fashion and the dean is almost certain he is to be knighted. And then a Rolls Royce pulls up at the hospital gates. In it is Sir Lancelot Spratt. Bored with retirement he has returned to invoke a clause in St Swithan’s original charter and resume his work – to the great dismay of just about everyone.
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental. www.houseofstratus.com About the Author Richard Gordon, real name Dr. Gordon Stanley Ostlere, was born in England on 15 September 1921. He is best-known for his hilarious ‘Doctor’ books. Himself a qualified doctor, he worked as an anaesthetist at the famous St. Bartholomew’s Hospital (where he was also a medical
peculiar about that water, after all.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Might be worth giving myself an injection of it one evening.’ He knocked on the door. ‘Morning, Eric. How are you two stallions getting on in the same stable?’ ‘Fine. He’s a great gas, Sir Lancelot. Kept me awake all night laughing, with stories of his operations. You know, Doc, I always thought up there in surgery it was tension and silence, except for the patient’s heavy breathing and the clipped commands – “Scalpel, nurse,
medical practitioners. He has also published several technical books under his own name, mainly concerned with anaesthetics for both students and patients. Additionally, he has written on gardening, fishing and cricket and was also a regular contributor to Punch magazine. His ‘Private Lives’ series, taking in Dr. Crippen, Jack the Ripper and Florence Nightingale, has been widely acclaimed. The enormous success of Doctor in the House, first published in the 1950’s, startled its author. It was
thousand quid.’ ‘I refuse to submit to blackmail.’ ‘Blackmail! When every single penny piece of it’s my own?’ ‘You will leave my wards, and without a single condition–’ They were interrupted by the lift door opening. It emitted the dean, Harry the porter, and a fat man in a blue uniform and chauffeur’s cap. ‘Bingham! Thank God. Something terrible has happened–’ ‘If you’ll forgive me,’ said Sir Lancelot loftily, moving away, ‘I shall be about my duties.’ ‘Yes, please, Lancelot, leave us,’
‘One mustn’t mourn for bricks and mortar,’ he told himself severely. ‘But it’s sad to lose the shrine of your memories.’ The cause of his distress was the surgical block of St Swithin’s. It was never a handsome building. It had been erected about the time Lord Lister was introducing a lot of new-fangled nonsense called aseptic surgery, when architects believed institutions catering for the sick poor should have a forbiddingly ecclesiastical appearance, to put the patients in a pliable mood of