Opinion  

She gazes at me, apologetically, as I explain carefully that you cannot say f***ing hell to our dispensary manager if you want your frusemide to actually be frusemide, rather than, say, laxoberal or strychnine.

Of course she understands, and it was absolutely bloody terrible of her, she says, and if that bugger of a hip of hers wasn't such a bloody nuisance then she wouldn't have had to make such a fuss anyway. Frankly my dear, she adds archly, if that dreadful little man hadn't been so rude when she wanted her hip resurfaced he'd have been a lot richer and she'd have been a lot more comfortable absolutely ages ago. She laughs uproariously and adjusts her knickers without shame.

Mrs Posh is one of life's truly posh. She's the kind of woman Hitler would never have defeated, the kind of person whose mini-mental test (performed by me after she lost he bloody car keys for the fifth day running) revealed such enlightening answers as: 'Where am I? Somewhere between widowhood and the coffin, my dear. Who's the prime minister? Who knows? Frankly, I'm not sure that anyone knows ...'

The gist of it is that whilst swearing at the staff is completely beyond the pale, I do have a sneaking affection for Mrs Posh, who is Posh in the way that people before the war were posh, when to be posh meant that you didn't join a celebrity list, nor worry about appearances or connections. Instead you joined the Land Army, had a lot of sex in hay barns and celebrated VE day by drinking half a bottle of whisky with the man who castrated the bulls, before marrying the local landowner's son, taking off your trousers and putting on your pearls, and making jam for the village fete for the rest of your days.

The trouble is, as we age we all revert to type, and the language and manners that now cause Mrs Posh to fall foul of us were once the stiff upper lip of this sceptred isle. We needed her once - and while I shall no doubt tell her off again, and cannot allow her to insult the staff who are doing their best for her, I secretly admire her for being true to herself. They don't make them like that any more.

Email Dr Selby at GPcolumnists@haymarket.com