Reports of My Death Doctors

Come on,

you'd better sleep it off upstairs.

Did I do the speech?

More of a slur than a speech, I imagine.

Did you embarrass yourself with The Women's Institute?

Dullards, the lot of them.

Come on...

I thought you were going to stay dry until you got home?

I did stay dry.

First a dry white wine,

then a dry Martini.

No, I didn't get it.

I know, it's a shame.

Mum, just leave it OK?

I've got to go, I'll call you later.

Oh, I don't...

You haven't touched your Alka-Seltzer.

I don't need it. That's for amateurs.

What did you do with my Duty Frees?

You smoked them all.

Really?

Better get myself back on a plane pronto.

What am I?

-A gerbil?

-We're out of bacon. It'll do you good.

I feel like I've woken up in The Betty Ford Center.

Remember what they told you in Harley Street?

Detox or die.

Fix me up a Martini, would you?

-Just to take the edge off.

-Just...

eat your muesli.

Ah, just the man.

Could you be primed to cover Doctor Preston's first appointments?

-There's no sign of her yet.

-Right?

So much for your reliable old trout.

More of a freshwater salmon, actually.

Well, on a good day.

Oh, hello. C-Can we help, Mrs Tembe?

This is Doctor Reid.

-The locum.

-Oh, Doctor Reid. Yes, of course.

Sorry I'm late, I had an argument with my Sat Nav.

Are you late? We hadn't noticed.

The kettle's boiled. Can we get you something?

-Thank you, I'd love a cup of tea.

-Mrs Tembe?

Howard Bellamy, Practice Manager.

Nice to meet you.

Were you expecting someone else?

No. Well sort of, yes.

Doctor Preston is under the weather.

I thought the agency would've let you know?

Very good of you to step in at the eleventh hour.

Could we have a moment?

Of course.

Quick word?

Aaaargh!

What is it now?

I'm dead. Dead!

Nearly, the way you're going. Just go back to sleep.

It's here in black and white.

What are you talking about?

My obituary.

They've printed my obituary!

You're still drunk.

"Anne McAllistair, journalist and broadcaster -

"born 3rd April, 1946.

"Died 1st October, 2012."

That was yesterday.

Yes. I can't have died yesterday.

I was at The Women's Institute.

Must be some sort of clerical error.

The nerve of those two-bit hacks.

Let's see how they like being sued by a corpse.

I just don't think she's right.

I think we should get the agency to send a better-qualified replacement.

She is eminently qualified - a police surgeon to boot.

Her references are impeccable.

And she's a lot easier on the eye than Doctor Preston.

It's not that kind of agency, Heston.

We can't send her home for being too attractive?

Call it a hunch, I just don't think she's right.

After the Elaine debacle,

your handling of staff matters doesn't inspire confidence.

At any rate, it's only temporary.

"Cirrhosis."

How dare they?

Maybe it's someone's idea of a joke.

Your old squash partner.

Wendy?

Even the name makes me wretch.

Come on, Anne, you can't blame her for everything.

Who else do I know that works at The Gazette?

Vindictive cow.

Let's not rush to any rash conclusions.

You can't blame Wendy without even looking into the whole thing!

There you go again - always leaping to her defence!

In spite of the blindingly obvious.

I suppose it is a bit of a coincidence.

Well, there's only one way to find out.

Why don't you ask her?

Forget it.

Then I guess you'll never really know.

Will you?

Higher?

No, a little lower, I think.

How's that?

Spot on.

Sorry, am I interrupting?

Jas, this is our new locum, Emma.

-Hi.

-Hello.

I think there's been a mix-up.

I was under the impression I was working from this office.

Oh, well...

It makes no odds to me.

I can work from the stationary cupboard if I have to.

No, no - Zara's room is free.

Why don't I work from there?

-Sounds good to me.

-As you're ergonomically suited to this office,

it seems a bit silly to play musical chairs.

Right. I'll work from there, shall I?

WHIRRING PHONE RINGS

Wendy Barron.

You'd better get on to your lawyers.

I'm going to sue your half-arsed rag into oblivion.

I'd better pass you onto my PA.

He deals with deranged members of the public.

It's Anne, remember me?

Your so-called newspaper printed my obituary this morning.

I've got news for you - I'm alive and a kicking!

I must admit, you do SOUND a bit like Anne.

It's not a bad impersonation.

That's because I'm impersonating myself. It's me, you imbecile.

If you really are who you say you are,

then you'll need to provide us with some reliable documentation.

What?

Just get a qualified doctor to confirm that you are Anne Barron

and that you are still alive.

They should be able to provide you with some sort of

"not dead certificate."

"A not-dead certificate?"

Are you completely insane?

Leave it with my PA and if it checks out,

we may be able to print a retraction next week.

That's the best I can do. Bye.

DISCONNECTED TONE

What did she say?

Get me an appointment at The Mill.

Brown, Bulloch...

The "B's" are in the next row.

Oh!

Got it.

Thank you. Sorry, I'm still getting my bearings.

Well, if you need me to show you anything, just holler.

Hmm, best offer I've had all day.

-Ah, I've been looking for you actually.

-Oh?

Could I have a quiet word?

Yes, of course. I'm just with a patient now.

So some time this afternoon?

Why don't you just tell her there's been a mistake?

You think I haven't tried that?

This woman is an idiot.

I need some official corroboration.

Sorry, but I think this is a bit beyond my remit.

If you won't phone her,

I have to have some sort of "not dead" certificate.

Ludicrous I know but just give me something -

ANYTHING to show that I'm not dead.

Look, I'm fighting fit

and I need you to prove that these lies about my health are nonsense,

then I can sue her to the back of beyond.

"Fighting fit?"

You've missed your last two health checks.

Are you still suffering from abdominal pains?

I don't want a full MOT, just the damn certificate.

Maybe it's a wake-up call.

How many units do you drink in an average week?

I lose count after the first 100.

What about your family?

I don't have any family - only Jeff, my husband.

And he'll be pleased to see the back of me.

Surely not.

He's still fit, healthy, he'll find someone else.

Good luck to him.

But if he ends up with Wendy, I'll be spinning in my grave.

Wendy Barron?

-Are we finished?

-If you won't give me that certificate,

-then I'm wasting my time.

-Maybe I can write you a note.

Barron is your maiden name, right?

Yes.

Written off as dead...

by my own wretched sister.

The seared scallops with balsamic strawberries will have you

drooling over your plate.

Sounds divine and I do like a scallop.

I had heard that you were something of a bon viveur.

-From whom?

-I think we have friends in common, from your days at St Phil's.

Ravi Choudhry?

Yes, of course, he's a very fine surgeon.

PHONE RINGS

Incredible. You're still with us.

Though you do look like death.

You've had botox, haven't you?

Or have you just forgotten how to frown?

Well, no-one could accuse YOU of visiting a beauty spa.

You know, facial hair removal's come on by leaps and bounds

in the last few years.

Is it safe for you to remain upright?

-What's this?

-A "not-dead" certificate.

This is most irregular, my sources are normally impeccable.

Sources? What sources? You wrote that slanderous bile.

I suppose we might be able to find room for a footnote

on next week's back page.

You'll do more than that.

A footnote is what your obituary will be.

And I'll be the one to write it.

"Anne Barron's infinitely less talented sister,

"who wrote for a number of national tabloids,

"before accepting her true vocation -

"caretaker of a crummy, local rag."

Much as I'm enjoying this little reunion, SOME of us have work to do.

-Raiph will show you out.

-I'm not going anywhere.

Not until you agree to a full-page spread in next week's edition.

I'd hate to tempt providence.

You could expire at any moment.

The article must acknowledge the editor's wilful slander

and pay tribute to my trailblazing career on Fleet Street.

I'll have final approval, of course.

In fact, I'd better write it myself.

How about we settle this in the old-fashioned way?

A sporting challenge should sort the living from the dead.

-Grow up.

-No, you need to prove you've still got a pulse.

-How about a round of golf?

-Forget it!

Tennis then? No!

-Squash!

-Don't be so absurd!

I haven't played squash since...

Since I trounced you in that NUJ charity match?

That was a fix, you slept with the referee.

Well then a rematch is long overdue.

If you win, I agree to your terms.

If I win - no retraction.

You'll just have to take your published death on the chin.

You may enjoy flailing about like a demented orang-utan,

but I'm happy to grow old gracefully.

What and drink yourself even more stupid?

Oh, it's such a shame you hung up your racquet.

Your husband's got quite a decent stroke.

Why, you rotten...

OK, you're on.

I should never have let her out of my sight.

She's probably gone on another bender.

I appreciate your concern, Mr McAllistair,

but I really can't discuss your wife's problems -

medical or otherwise.

Yes, I know that, it's only I thought she might listen to you.

Anne strikes me as a very headstrong woman.

And then some.

Whatever I say or do only seems to make matters worse.

Isn't there someone else who could talk to her?

Someone she'd take notice of?

There's only one person Anne really listens to

and they're not on speaking terms.

First game to me.

Do you really think you can take this to five games?

There's a good chance you'll be dead by two.

Of course. Just warming up.

What do you want to know?

Just wondered what men like women to say, you know,

to get them in the mood.

What does it for the average guy?

"See you upstairs, after Match of the Day."

I wouldn't know. I'm not your average guy.

OK, then, tell me what turns you on.

So you've reached 30 without knowing how to turn a man on?

THAT would explain why you're single.

I thought you might at least have put up a fight.

But then beneath all the bluster, you always were a lightweight.

A lightweight - me?

That's rich.

Do you remember your first day at The Express?

Weren't quite ready to drink with the grown-ups, were you?

Threw up all over your best Biba, and I had to take you home to Mummy.

Trust you to brag about boozing.

Your one talent - pickling your liver with impunity.

"Columnist of the Year", three years running.

Jog my memory what awards did you win?

KNOCK AT DOOR

Come in.

Oh, sorry, I was just looking for some medical gloves.

Should be some in there.

Thanks.

Enjoying some downtime?

Yeah, just a bit of research.

-A friend of mine used to do that.

-What?

Phone sex - a nice little sideline.

-Helps pay for the childcare.

-Really?

Hmmm, she says "It's money for old rope."

And she used to get the ironing done at the same time.

One game all, if I'm not mistaken.

Just letting you back into the match.

Now I'm taking off the kid gloves.

-So, why did you write it?

-Hmm?

The obituary.

Never said I did.

Top marks for effort.

Life in the old girl yet!

Anne?

Anne?

Annie?

Sorry if I was a bit short earlier - bad morning.

Hey, we all have them.

My family head for the nearest bunker

-when I get out of bed the wrong side.

-Have you got kids?

Just a son - Chris. All grown up now, finished his studies.

-You don't seem old enough.

-Well I had him young.

Didn't train until after he was born.

It was a struggle.

Mind you, I think it's much tougher for young people now.

Not enough jobs and then all that student debt to pay off.

Tell me about it.

Five years of medical school for this.

I need some extra cash but I don't know if I could resort to that.

It seems like borderline prostitution.

What are you prostituting?

Your voice?

Look, most men are pretty straight forward.

It doesn't take much to get their rocks off.

I suppose you could see it as some sort of role-playing exercise.

Exactly.

One minute you're a virginal milk maid...

KNOCK AT DOOR

..and the next you're some leather-clad sex goddess.

Hello.

I see you two are getting to know each other?

The blood tests indicate some abnormal liver functions.

The damage may be reversible

but ONLY if you embrace a major lifestyle change.

Give it a rest, Doctor.

It'll take more than a dizzy spell to turn me

into some dreary teetotaller.

A healthy diet, strictly no alcohol or cigarettes.

And sensible exercise -

don't go throwing yourself about like a Williams sister.

This is all your fault.

We could've settled this back at the office,

but oh, no - you had to turn it into the Olympic Games.

Of course, I'm to blame for everything, aren't I?

Your 50 years of boozing - THAT must be my fault too.

Come on, ladies.

She always resented my success.

But to kill me off in print, that's a new low,

even by her depraved standards.

I...didn't...write it!

You expect me to believe that?

If you didn't write it, who did?

He did.

-What?

-It's true.

Caught you at last.

-Are we playing chase?

-Emma...

What?

Yes?

I don't think it's a good idea.

Sorry, you've lost me.

Emma...

Oh, that.

Ancient history.

Even so...

..it just feels messy, unprofessional.

I think it best if you cut short your locum engagement.

You put him up to this, didn't you?

-Why would I do that?

-You thought it would kill me off.

It was my idea, Anne.

A lousy idea, as it turns out.

But I take the credit, all the same.

No. This is much too audacious for you.

How did you get The Gazette to play ball?

Wendy agreed to publish the obituary.

So, you planned it together?

I knew it.

SHE CHUCKLES

Well, if it's my pension you're after, you can forget it.

-I'll be filing for a divorce!

-Why don't you ever listen?

Why don't we leave them to it, eh?

In the early days, our rivalry was a cause celebre.

She'd lambast me in her column, I'd retaliate in mine.

Then it kind of took on a life of its own.

The public, the editors - that's all they wanted.

I just saw it as a pantomime.

But Anne took it more seriously?

Yeah, I think so.

But we only stopped talking once she'd retired.

How come?

One night, this was a few years back,

I invited Jeff for a game of squash.

Anne got wind of it, and hit the roof.

She thought it was my seduction technique!

I don't even fancy him(!)

Didn't you try to put her mind at rest?

Oh, Jeff did until he was blue in the face.

The booze has made her paranoid.

Until today, we hadn't even spoken in three years.

That's a long time to waste on a misunderstanding.

Well, if Anne was still working,

she'd have probably written a funny article about it

and the whole thing would've blown over.

But NOW, she doesn't have that.

All she has is the drink...

and Jeff.

Leave it another three years and you might not get another chance...

..to bury the hatchet.

Her health is precarious.

But if someone can convince her to stop drinking then...

maybe she'll prove your newspaper wrong.

I knew that you'd blame Wendy for the obituary.

And I figured it might get you talking again.

We've always had a combative relationship.

Just because my liver's on the brink,

it's not going to be all hugs and kisses.

No, you'll carry on as you always have - at each other's throats.

But maybe you need that.

You need your old sparring partner.

Whatever I say or do makes little difference.

But in spite of all the rancour,

I always thought you valued Wendy's opinion.

Oh... Come to stick the boot in, have you?

This isn't some sort of sinister conspiracy, Anne.

No?

What is it, then?

We thought that the obituary might shock you into sobriety.

Joking, aren't you? If ever I needed a drink.

Well, despite what you think, your drinking is a big worry.

For me, for your friends and most of all, for Jeff.

Well, a fake obituary isn't going to throw me on the wagon.

Doctor Tyler recommended someone.

Why don't we fix you up with an appointment?

No way.

I can't see me fitting in with the Temperance Society.

There's no reasoning with you, is there?

You're beyond reason.

The only thing you care about is the next bloody drink.

Everything else is just collateral damage.

If you want to drink yourself into an early grave, so be it.

Just don't expect me to stand by and watch.

I would hate to renege on a work commitment.

That really would be unprofessional.

Not at all.

I'll just inform the agency

that it's a shorter contract than expected.

Well, I've already signed, you'd have to pay me anyway.

Howard, I'm sure that neither of us

would allow a little skirmish to get in the way of our jobs.

A skirmish?

Oh, come on, we can work together, can't we?

Who knows, might even have some fun.

You've got a great little team here.

I already feel like I've made a few friends.

Don't get too comfortable. It's not for too long.

I know.

Better make the make the most of it then, hadn't I?

Good night.

Why do you drink?

Why does anybody drink?

I enjoy it.

No, you always enjoyed a tipple, but not like this.

-You drink because you're bored.

-What?

-How about a lead article in The Gazette?

-Oh, God...

Political opinion, local gossip,

maybe the occasional interview with your more talented, older sister.

And a chance to write my own obituary?

Of course.

Jeff loves you, Anne.

If he didn't, he wouldn't have gone to these ridiculous lengths.

Hmm.

I don't know why he puts up with me.

Maybe it's because he remembers what you're really like,

without the booze.

And maybe he believes that you can change, even when you don't.

CAR ALARM BEEPS

Emma...

Pleasant first day, I hope?

Nothing I couldn't handle.

The Mill has its idiosyncrasies.

But when you have an hour or two, I could give you a few pointers.

-Pointers?

-Yes, some friendly advice over supper?

Or lunch?

You're very sweet. But perhaps I should've explained.

I don't wear my wedding ring at work,

purely for health and safety reasons.

Oh! I see.

But we should still do lunch.

I'd love to get to know everyone better.

I'll see you tomorrow.

Good night.

Hey, babes, have a guess what I'm wearing?

Come on, Jim, don't be such a sap.

All you have to do is sign the form.

I can't, you know I can't, I have to say no.

The lads play jokes all the time.

You need to tell the police about this.

No.

Us trying for a baby?

Daniel being in bed with us isn't the best thing, is it?

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