This is a tragic story… My mum fell over….

On one of her shopping expeditions in the community bus, my old mum carrying groceries to the house, stumbled on the bluestone edge.
The shopping cascaded down, the apples, potatoes, following the camber to a state of repose, the bottles and cans, and the odd bottle of wine cushioned by her body, and establishing a composition of sorts between the level and the deep blue scene.

Recovering from the shock, she admired the undercarriage of the gleaming four wheel drives parked adjacently, (speed humps require heavy vehicles), and realised, after checking, that there were no bruises beyond dignity.  She tried to get up, and couldn’t, ‘Oh well something will turn up’.

It must have been close to six o’clock. 
The humorless oncologist had arrived, he got out of his car, noticed mum sprawled in the gutter, walked over, “hello”, she warbled, “I may need your help”.  He put his briefcase down, the lives of countless cancer victims, safely entombed within the leatherette sanctity of polished brass latches.  He bent down, checked her legs, nodded ,“nothing broken” and helped her up.  He walked her to the door.  Mum thanked him profusely, laughing all the time, “Don’t worry about the apples, I’ll fetch them later’, and sorting herself out talking to her saviour she looked up, he’d disappeared into his private space.

Several days later, a letter arrived.  Mum likes letters, especially ones that don’t look like bills.  She noticed the address on the back, Dr so and so, ‘Oh how nice, a get well card’.

The  shock was instantaneous. An invoice for consultative services rendered, in plain type… a neat little invoice, though lacking a conversational touch, it was efficiency personified.

Mum decried the loss of community values.  “Well”, I remarked dryly, ‘he has assessed your value, within the community, that’ s a reciprocity of sorts…”.