Playing Doctors and Firses

A female surgeon performs the following op: she gently attempts to prise away from her patient’s teary eyes some glassy film of grief
with her agéd stethoscope. Listens carefully. Then she tries to hook his comfort from its predestined plate fork throat heart arc with her surgical grade fish hook. Oh what a gag. What a gape. There is nil escape by mouth.

She practises resuscitation by drama, yells for trolleys, masks, oxygen, any damn thing that breathes relief into an old story. But to be rescued to be sure is not what he wants to be. And no administrative fool she. Finally she proffers anaesthetic slowly, in hope of it being a pain free future. Which of course she should have done first had she not been so tentatively prescient.

Her patient, however contrary to his popularity, is awake with great longevity and stubbornly refuses to be party to such undercover operations as female surgeons are prone to resort to and female surgeons get a little too implement happy when they’re taken to task, unmasked, disrobed, (you wish!). So she turns herself into a fish.

This female sturgeon wriggles and swims delightfully stream aligned;
disguises each movement in conspiratorial sarcasm of The Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am! kind. Slithers against the enticing scales of this male, finning for slime, displaying for time. Which is harder to do than you might think even for a matter of fact world-womanly fish such as she. He being such a slippery character and all that.

So she resorts to bottom-lining, to down-stream mind-game laying.
Plays as many fishy capers as she can dream up. Dreams being subject to all manner of undercurrents of course. But the male, (oxygenated and fully alert) nevertheless continues to lie languidly along side the langoustines and other assorted fine specimens of hicks, Micks, spicks, clever dicks and various pricks.

In any case not the right sort of company at all for such a fine fish as she. So she turns herself into a tree.