Doctor On Toast
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In this riotously funny comedy Dr Grimsdyke’s genius for disaster is given full rein. He falls in love with a model, only to find she is already married. His much-anticipated cruise is an unmitigated disaster and his role as Sir Lancelot’s biographer leads them both into misadventure in the extreme. And then there is the hypochondriac the Bishop of Wincanton, the murder specialist Dr Mcfiggie, not to mention the most alarming girl from Paris. With such potential pitfalls, it is not surprising that Grimsdyke and Sir Lancelot avoid imprisonment by only the narrowest of margins.
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Arcade. ‘It’s Gaston Grimsdyke!’ ‘What ho, old lad,’ I greeted him. ‘It seems a long time since we used to pinch each other’s bathwater.’ He stood staring at me, like Macbeth when Banquo came to dinner. ‘But – but what on earth are you doing here? Where’s Dr Potter-Phipps?’ ‘Enjoying a well earned Christmas holiday at St Moritz,’ I explained. ‘I’m obliging as his locum tenens.’ ‘What? You mean you actually became a qualified doctor in the end?’ He gave a loud laugh. ‘Well, well! How
butlers steadily ever since, when I’ve been in work. I’ve become absolutely first-class at this “Dinner is served, m’lord, Coffee is on the terrace, m’lady, The body awaits you in the library, Inspector” stuff. Though you can’t imagine how hard it is living, breathing and thinking a butler from morning to night. I’m so glad you liked the performance.’ ‘The way you were carrying on certainly made the Admirable Crichton look like a teashop waitress,’ I told him, ‘but that’s not the point–’ ‘Thank
the face of wide-scale suffering and death. Love and Sir Lancelot St Swithan’s Hospital keeps the rooms of its male and female students separate by an ingenious bricking up of corridors and staircases. However love will always find a way – even if its path is not always smooth and it has to encounter a few locked doors and barred windows along the way. Simon Sparrow chooses the American film star Ann Beverley to lavish his attentions on while the erstwhile Randolph Nightrider, a genius at the
slap in the middle of the Piccadilly traffic or surrounded by lots of empty milk bottles and dustmen. As for Basil, I reflected sourly as I drove round Marble Arch, the chap was at that very moment sticking on his forked tail and whiskers and preparing to shoot into the public eye through his trapdoor up in Blackport. Sir Lancelot seemed to live in some style. A pretty Italian maid in a frilly apron took my overcoat, and he appeared himself to lead me upstairs to the study of his Harley Street
remarks with QCs, and even give Her Majesty’s judges a come-back from the witness-box, it became clear as Sir Lancelot tried a few more openings that he was a shocking social failure. He just sat staring at his feet and working his eyebrows up and down, until they looked in danger of getting matted together permanently. I suppose he would have felt really at home in the room only if the lot of us had been dead. ‘It is surely freely admitted inside our profession that many doctors murder their