Good For A Laugh

Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo, that is. Not so much in itself, but in its treatment. At least, when said treatment is carried out by a Spanish Doctor with a hilarious sense of humour.
After finding my notes on the computer, and ascertaining my Diz was still in place, he eyed up the couch in the consulting room, then suggested we wander round to the other side of the surgery, where there would be a proper hospital couch, on wheels, and with rise and fall mechanisms.
We marched in a convoy of two past all the curious patients awaiting their turns, and you could see the puzzled looks on their faces. " Why the route march?"
On the opposite, newer side of the building, the treatment rooms are better equipped, and Doc quickly pushed pedals, pulled levers, and got the trolley-type couch into the middle of the room. An animated computer diagram showed what was expected of me; the Epley manoeuvre.

"This is a series of four movements of the head; after each, the head is held in the same position for 30 seconds or so. Basically, they cause the posterior semicircular canal to rotate in such a way that gravity moves the otoconia fragments out from the posterior canal and into the vestibule, where they then settle, and cause no more symptoms."

So says the leaflet. The practice is a little more nerve wracking. Head to the right - room sways, then steadies. Head to the left - room sways violently, but eventually steadies. Roll over to left side and all hell breaks loose, giddy-wise. I am convinced I will fall off narrow couch onto floor. Doc reassures me by saying "It's all right - I will drop you gently!" Ha Bloody Ha.
I have to roll even further to the left, and fling one arm out towards the floor tiles, as I feel sure that's where I will end up. Meanwhile, Doc continues to assure me his legs will stop me from rolling off, and he clutches my hand in a vice like grip so's I know he's not aiming to drop me just yet...
Then in his beautifully accented English, he says "All we need now is for somebody to walk in the door!" My eyes are shut tight to combat Diz, so I can only imagine his posture, but it must have been strange, to say the least. We both start laughing. He says "It's a bit like a circus act", as he tries to stop me hooking my right foot over the back edge of the couch, as a kind of anchor.
At this point I laugh twice as much, and suggest he calls in a few of those grim faced patients we walked past, and charge them for the show.
When the last count of 30 seconds has run it's course, he hauls me up sideways to a sitting position, and I wait for the world to catch up with me.
Eventually he trusts me to walk back round the room to my chair, and he prints off three sheets of info, and books me in for 7.45 next Tuesday, for our repeat performance. "We will do that in the car park", he jests, "and charge everybody three pounds fifty for a ticket, to add to my retirement fund."
I have yet to see whether the Diz has gone for good. but don't you wish you had a doctor like mine?