I was in the examining room of Dr S, my most excellent osteopath, where he was going over the X-ray and lab reports from my hospital stay. First he asked me about my broken arm, then ribs, nose, rest of face and mouth.
Then: "How's your bush?
"My WHAT?" I was sure I had misheard.
"Your bush. How's your bush?"
I couldn't believe my ears. I'd never heard anything remotely vulgar from Dr S, a soft-spoken teddy bear whose receptionist wife was seated just steps outside the door. Besides, even if he was being crude, I was uninjured below the waist, so he had no reason to inquire about my nether regions.
"YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW MY BUSH IS DOING?" I was fairly spluttering.
"Yeah, you know--that little plant I brought you in the hospital."
I must have looked stunned. He added, "I didn't mean that bush!"
"Well, I was sort of wondering..." I said. "Anyway, it's a topiary ivy, not a bush!"
"OK, whatever," he said. "But wasn't it cute?"
We laughed so hard I thought I'd split my upper lip again.