I told my GP a joke the other day. It was only a short joke, one of the few I know by heart. She pressed her hands to her cheeks and stared at me.
Dr G is a broadminded, competent, compassionate doctor. She’s quite easy-going. I arrived at one appointment to find her wearing shorts and a T-shirt; she shrugged—’I just didn’t feel like wearing work clothes today’. But she does come from a culture not known for its ready sense of humour. She was probably concerned for the character who was the butt of the joke—so to speak. That character, through a degree of dementia perhaps, had a self-inflicted injury—okay, maybe not an injury as such. But there would have been some discomfort. Not to mention inconvenience.