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My hip, I have told you, is on the way out,
I need a new one, of this there’s no doubt;
Thank goodness we have our dear NHS,
Heroic, lifesaving – despite all the stress.

An X-ray confirms that things do look grim,
Arthritis afflicting my tired old limb,
I’m sent to an expert: he does hips and knees;
To him, I am sure, it will be a breeze.

Consultant they call him – he must be so smart;
I try to spruce up, and then I depart.
The hospital’s busy, so I have to wait,
They say he is sorry that he’s running late.

At long last, they call me: I knock on the door,
He answers, “Come in”, I do – and am done for:
His features: so chiselled, so manly, so fine –
A dart of delight shoots right down my spine.

He says, “Please lie down”, gets up from his stool:
He is six foot five! I wobble and drool.
“It’s strange,” he announces and shifts on the spot,
“The wobble’s a symptom – the drooling is not."

“Grab hold of your knee, pull it up to your chin”;
The shape of his earlobe – I’m pining within,
My chest overflowing with longing and ache,
But all I can do is lie there and shake.

He scratches his head, “Now, this is most odd:
These shakes, that’s quite new,” then gives a grave nod.
The mole on his chin! Exquisite? You bet!
So all I can do is redden and sweat.

“Rosacea and sweating: The Lancet, I think:
I might have discovered some strange causal link.”
He scribbles some notes, I look at his lips,
The fateful conclusion: I need two new hips.

“That’s all, we are done.” This shatters my trance;
I make for the door with one final glance.
His profile a sight that I cannot efface.
He murmurs, “Strange symptoms – ground-breaking, this case” . . .