I knocked twice on the Doctor’s door.

‘Who’s there,’ came the deep crackled voice.

‘Your next patient,’ I said.

‘Come in!’

I went inside and sat down at his desk. The wall clock ticked hypnotically.

‘What seems to be the problem,’ he said.

‘Well Doctor,’ I said. ‘I feel like a cliché.’

The Doctor looked me up and down. ‘What are the symptoms?’

‘Well let’s see’ I said. ‘I’m a comedian, who doesn’t laugh. I’m the clown who cries, the joker who doesn’t jest.’

‘I see’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘I’m a cliché!’ I cried. ‘No better than a joke about aeroplane food, the difference between men and women, or a gag about my overbearing Jewish parents.’

‘Are you Jewish?’ he asked.

‘No I’m not.’

‘Then how do you know Jewish parents are not overbearing?’

‘Because it’s a cliché,’ I said, ‘like every dog has his day. Or time will tell or she was as old as the hills.’

‘Yes I see’ he said. ‘You should avoid cliché’s. I always try to.’

‘I’m trying but I just seem to attract them,’ I said with tears leaking from my eyes.

‘There there,’ he said. ‘No need to cry.’ He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pad.
‘I’ll write you a prescription to lift you out of the dumps. If the symptoms persist come back in a month.’

He handed me the prescription and I stood up and wiped my eyes. ‘Will I get better?’ I asked. ‘Will I stop being a cliché?’

‘Time is the telling’ he said. ‘You should try and laugh more though. It’s very good for you.’

‘I’ll try’ I said. ‘I’ll try.’


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