Cardiologist Brian Braxton Arrives at the Health Spa for a Relaxing Getaway. He Decides to Have a Shave and Head Out for the Evening—After All, It’s the Over 40s Crowd and the Usual Fun. Although He’s Over 60 Himself—But Who’s Really Counting?

Dr. Michael Bransfield, a cardiologist, arrived at an English countryside spa hotel for some much-needed rest. He decided to shave and prepare himself for the evening, thinking that, at his age over sixty one ought to look smart. Who would notice a few extra years anyway?

Suddenly, the door to his room burst open, and in came a woman of such proportions and presence that words could barely do her justice. One could, in theory, run entire anatomy lessons with her as the subject. Youd need a pointer to list every feature: A woman is made up of

She exclaimed with delight, Oh, this is marvellous! A renowned cardiologist, here of all places! Its a blessing, because the caretaker is hurriedly wheeling a very ill gentleman to the treatment room. Our resident doctor is on leave, and as no one ever plans a heart attack for midnight, its lucky youre here!

Dr. Bransfield realised escape was futile; she was a force of nature. There must have been over fifteen stone to her, with lips painted scarlet almost like a stamp of the High Inquisition on a powdered granite boulder. Women like her never let go. You could try to explain that even cardiac magicians need more than a caretaker and a nurse dressed like a seductive Snowman, but she wouldnt listen.

So, Bransfield found himself ushered into the treatment room. The caretaker stood there, wild-eyed, with a trolley. On it lay a bearded man, pinned down by a weighty medical file. He resembled a teenage boy with a lumberjacks head the sort typically found among senior researchers.

Rambling, the caretaker reported. Says rose, rose over and over. Thinks hes in a flower shop.

The nurse was checking the patients blood pressure and pronounced it disastrous: seventy over fifty and dropping. Thats not blood pressure, thats the circumference of my arms and legs! she joked, laughing abruptly, which unsettled Bransfield. Yet the record stated this man usually ran at a hefty one-eighty over one-hundred.

Bransfield surveyed the room, searching for what he needed, and there it was: the sound of quiet sobbing. He turned. The nurse was in tears. He asked, Whats wrong? She simply replied she felt terribly sorry for the man.

Bransfield felt a pang of unease. We need adrenaline, he said, dousing his hands with alcohol rub. You know what adrenaline is, and which syringe to use?

Oh, poor man! the nurse wailed again, sobbing against the doorframe.

Bransfield grabbed a syringe and did it himself. Then he noticed the caretaker looking as if hed just seen a harpoon large enough to repel pirates and swaying on the spot, grey-eyed and ashen. In the corner, the nurse sobbed louder. Bransfield thought about slapping her to snap her out of it, but considered the risk: she might rebound through the window and crash three stories down.

Fed up, Bransfield found a depression in the mans bony chest and injected the adrenaline. Immediately, the caretaker collapsed like a felled piling.

Oh, poor caretaker! cried the nurse.

What on earth is wrong with all of you? Bransfield shouted. Wheres the smelling salts?

Theyre going to die, arent they? Oh, I wish my eyes never had to see this

On the table sat a hefty cast iron lamp, engraved with David Tends the Lions Throat. A good five kilos, Bransfield reckoned. He briefly considered knocking someone out with it, just to restore order. He restrained himself and demanded that everyone calm down, because he was starting to forget who was meant to be treating whom.

Order! Discipline and composure! he bellowed.

Just then, the man on the trolley sat up eyes closed.

No mischief, sir, scolded the nurse sternly, pushing his head back down. The smelling salts are in the cupboard, obviously.

The caretaker was sprawled across the room, barely conscious. The bearded mans hand slid off the trolley. Yet again, he seemed to drift away. Bransfield cursed under his breath.

Start chest compressions! he barked, as he fished the caretaker out from under the trolley by a limp ankle.

The nurse turned the patient over onto his front, hiked up her skirt, ready to climb over the trolley.

Chest compressions! The heart, not the backside, you dolts! Bransfield shouted.

The nurse flipped the man over again and sat on him. The trolley groaned under the weight. Bransfield thought he heard something crack.

He revived the caretaker with smelling salts and propped him up on a cot. He turned back and feared the nurse might crush her charge. She was in frenzy.

He grabbed her off the patient, shoved smelling salts in her face, and sat her down beside the caretaker. They looked like a pair of stunned hens: cotton wool up their nostrils, the caretakers trousers at half-mast, the nurses skirt hiked up to her hips. What a team. The aroma of ammonia filled the air, but neither reacted.

And then, as if nothing had happened, the patient sat upright eyes still closed and slowly turned his head toward the cot. At this, the caretaker fainted forward again, striking his head on the tiled floor, creating a spiderweb of cracks.

My friends, the patient said, eyes still shut, I must ask you never to treat me again

He explained: he was a lifelong hypotensive. Before a snowstorm, he deflated like a spent balloon; a thunderstorm would sweep him along the floor. He was born that way. His baseline was eighty over fifty. Sometimes, it dropped a bit more then a cup of strong espresso put things right. But its no help being sat on by a woman whose necklace was made of billiard balls.

Hed thought it was all over. His wife would come back from the loo surprised to find him gone. She was the poorly one, but it looked as though shed be the one planning his funeral.

Bransfield felt his hair turn grey. He grabbed the medical file to read the name: Rose Yates. He remembered thinking, on his way to the spa, that hed find himself a nice local lady, have a bit of fun, perhaps even something more. But now, he felt utterly put off.

Whats this? he demanded, showing the nurse the file.

Its a record, she said, gazing blankly ahead, cotton protruding from her nostrils.

But this isnt Rose Yates, Bransfield pointed out. Its a man, at the very least, Lionel Yates.

As his doctor, you really should have noticed, the nurse remarked.

You little

Lets clarify, the patient interrupted. My wifes here. I brought Rose a bottle of kefir. She went to the loo and left her file with me. I started feeling faint, and this chap here who just disproved the theory that softer things cant overcome harder hoisted me onto the trolley and rolled me in. I felt dreadful. But now, actually, I feel all right. With your fire engine faces surrounding me, I dont fancy another faint anytime soon. I now have such high and stable blood pressure that, if you held a lighter by my feet, Id float off and see the stars. I dont know what you gave me, doctor, but I might never sleep again which fits my schedule for writing more academic papers.

After the man with the kefir left, the nurse suggested, Lets agree we were never here.

Bransfield again contemplated the iron lamp, but she quickly offered, Ill take care of the caretaker.

In the end, my trip to the spa yielded no local romance, nor peaceful rest. But thanks to incredible chaos and utter farce, I learned never to expect peace and quiet, even among the rolling hills and polite whispers of the English countryside especially in the company of formidable women and bumbling staff.