Doctor’s Orders
By #HerbieHind
Doctor’s Orders is a tale of novel diagnosis, corrective remedies, and one young woman’s regrettable visit to the Netherby surgery. When Miss Patricia Featherstone seeks a cure for her chronic ennui, she discovers that Dr Blythe’s prescription is rather more hands-on than she anticipated. Treatment may be swift, but recovery costs her dignity, and complicates the seating arrangements.
Act I: Diagnosis and a Dreadful Prescription
The village surgery of Dr Algernon Blythe was a place of respectable gloom. The oak furniture was heavy and dark, the shelf was filled with vials that suggested unspeakable cures, and the anatomical posters looked suspiciously outmoded. The waiting room carried the inexplicable odour of all medical practices: camphor, boiled sweets, and repression.
Into this scene swept Miss Patricia Featherstone. Known as Patsy to most, and to some as “Not Her Again”. She trailed the scent of Chanel No. 5, blended with a whiff of faint indignation. Her sunglasses were unapologetically out of place. In any case, she was a young lady who never apologised anyway.
“I’ve simply got no energy, Doctor,” she sighed, collapsing onto the examination couch with the kind of flair only an exclusive boarding school education could bestow. “I wake up tired, I can’t concentrate on anything, and I feel an almost violent disinclination to help around the house.”
Dr Blythe, a man of benevolence whose ear hair had long since outpaced his dwindling head hair, adjusted his spectacles with a gentle squint. His medical career had spanned a wide array of ailments, from trench foot to tennis elbow, but of late, the village had been beset by a peculiar epidemic that he privately dubbed Idleness Syndrome.
“I see,” he murmured, scribbling something illegible into a leather-bound notebook. “And are you sleeping well?”
“Oh yes,” Patsy said brightly. “I didn't wake up until almost noon today. And that was only because the cat jumped on my head.”
Dr Blythe made a noise somewhere between a hum and a sigh, and turned to a drawer behind his desk. From it, he extracted a sealed envelope and tapped it once against the desk.
“I believe,” he said, with the gravitas of a man delivering a minor royal decree, “that we’re dealing with a case of insufficiently moderated high spirits. I find it’s become rather prevalent among the younger persons of the district.”
“Is it catching?” Patsy asked, eyebrows rising behind her sunglasses.
“I feel it's more cultural than infectious,” he said, with the air of someone dodging a lawsuit. “But I’ve devised a preventative course of treatment. The full details are enclosed.”
Patsy took the envelope and turned it over suspiciously.
“Is this one of those vitamin things?”
“Not quite,” said the doctor. “The treatment is to be administered by a trusted family member — someone with firm values and an even firmer wrist. I myself must remain uninvolved. Propriety, and so on.”
She frowned. “I’m sorry, Doctor... are you actually suggesting—?”
Dr Blythe steepled his fingers. “In my clinical opinion, the gluteal region remains one of the most responsive sites for applied behavioural medicine.”
“Surely, you can't mean... a spanking?”
“I prefer the term traditional corrective stimulus,” he said, rising and extending his hand. “A single course should prove sufficient. If symptoms persist, come back to see me, or you can always speak to my district nurse, Mrs Doubty.”
Patsy stood, dazed, envelope in hand, and left the surgery without quite knowing how her legs were working. She barely recalled crossing the village green, though at some point she passed the post office and nearly tried to post her handbag.
By the time she reached Netherby Lodge, Patsy had cycled through disbelief, outrage, and horror. She toyed with the idea of losing the note, but in the end, she realised there was no escaping it. If she ignored it, Aunt Honoria would sniff out the deception, and when she did, the prescription might return with reinforcements.
Inside, Aunt Honoria was polishing the silver with military intensity. The drawing room glinted with upright morality and polished mahogany.
“Aunt Honoria,” Patsy began, suddenly unsure whether to laugh or cry, “I’ve been to see Dr Blythe.”
Her aunt did not look up. “Did he understand your symptoms? I hope he managed to get to the bottom of everything.”
“In a manner of speaking. He gave me… this,” Patsy said, holding out the envelope like it might explode.
Aunt Honoria squinted. “I don’t have my glasses on. Read it aloud, dear.”
There was a pause. Patsy took a breath, then read:
“A corrective measure is advised, requiring direct action by a trusted household superior. Application should focus on the lower posterior region. This may introduce acute temporary discomfort, but if properly enacted, the effects will be prompt, persuasive, and character-building.”
Aunt Honoria looked up. “Patsy, are you quite sure you’ve read that correctly? It sounds rather…”
“Unusual? Victorian? Perhaps illegal?” Patsy’s voice cracked. “Yes. All of those.”
“I suppose you understand the nature of this remedy?”
“Yes Aunt Honoria. I think he expects you to... put me over your lap,” Patsy whispered. “And smack my bottom.”
Aunt Honoria blinked. Then nodded, as if this were not entirely unexpected. “Dr Blythe has always believed in hands-on treatment. His methods are unusual, but one can’t deny, he gets results.”
Patsy’s voice rose in mortified protest. “Aunt Honoria, this is ridiculous! I’m twenty-one!”
“Which makes you old enough to know better,” her aunt replied, gently patting her hand. “We’ll have supper first. Then we’ll see to the prescription.”
Patsy gaped. “You can’t be serious!”
“Patsy, you know that I've always believed in good health, and household decorum,” said Aunt Honoria. “This may help on both counts.”
Dinner was a bleak affair. Patsy barely touched her haddock, haunted by the envelope on the mantelpiece. It simply sat there, looking smug. Her aunt remained perfectly serene.
After pudding, Aunt Honoria rose.
“Go and change into your nightdress, Patricia. I expect to see you in the drawing room in precisely five minutes.”
Patsy nodded slowly, like a condemned duchess accepting her fate. As she climbed the stairs, she wondered if Aunt Honoria would notice if she pinned a cushion to the inside of her nightie?
Act II: Supervision and Side Effects
Five minutes later, Patsy returned in a white linen nightdress, looking like a tragic heroine from a minor Russian opera. Aunt Honoria sat upright in a tall wooden chair, her expression calm, her bearing that of a woman preparing to settle a longstanding account.
“Over my lap, please,” she said crisply. “Let’s not drag this out.”
Patsy froze. Her legs felt oddly disconnected from her brain. Lowering herself over her Aunt’s lap, feeling the rough tweed skirt through her insubstantial nightie, stirred memories she’d rather not revisit. I'm far too grown up for this she thought, hardly able to believe what she was doing.
“Aunt Honoria, surely we can be reasonable—”
Smack.
“Honestly, Patricia,” came the reply, firm but unhurried. “Dr Blythe knows what he's doing. This is for your own good.”
Smack. Smack.
“Ouch! Auntie, this really stings!”
“Correct. And it's clinically endorsed. Now hold still.”
Patsy winced as the treatment continued, each brisk slap landing with humiliating precision. The thin linen of her nightdress offered little comfort. She wasn’t sure which burned more — her upturned backside or her pride.
She considered protesting again, but her aunt’s rhythm was relentless, her grip secure. It would be like arguing with granite.
Then, with a jarring abruptness, the doorbell chimed.
Aunt Honoria paused, looking mildly annoyed. “Well that’s inconvenient. Just as we were beginning to make a little progress.”
Patsy, still draped inelegantly across her aunt’s lap, blinked. “Have I been saved by the bell?” she asked, without much real hope.
“Certainly not,” Aunt Honoria replied, guiding her upright with brisk efficiency. “Go to the corner. Hands on your head. And do try not to sulk. It looks so undignified.”
Patsy obeyed in stunned silence, cheeks blazing. All of them. She shuffled into place, trying to pretend she was merely admiring the wallpaper. From the front door she heard muffled voices and, a minute later, footsteps approached the drawing room.
Mrs Doughty was stout, officious, and dressed in navy from bun to boot. She carried a clipboard and a briefcase with the ominous finality of someone who knew what “follow-through” meant — both in spirit and in wrist.
“Mrs Doughty,” Aunt Honoria said. “I'm so glad you could attend.”
“I always assist Dr Blythe with field supervision,” said Mrs Doughty. Her voice was crisp, like cold toast. “He finds it improves compliance.”
Patsy turned slowly from the corner. “Supervision?”
“Observation and calibration. Sometimes we find the dosage needs to be increased.” Mrs Doughty opened her briefcase with the air of someone selecting surgical instruments. “When did symptoms first appear?”
“Since Cheltenham,” said Aunt Honoria. “Worsened after the tennis club dinner.”
Mrs Doughty nodded, jotting notes. “A classic onset pattern.”
Patsy stared as the woman produced a single brown leather slipper from the case. It looked seasoned. Experienced. Ominously flexible, and clearly no stranger to vigorous application.
“It's a standard model,” Mrs Doughty explained. “Good weight. No bruising unless you give it a little too much enthusiasm.”
Patsy winced at the thought of it.
“Over the lap again, dear,” said Aunt Honoria, patting her knee.
Patsy hesitated. “I don't suppose I could request a second opinion?”
But the look from her aunt made it clear: there wasn’t.
With theatrical reluctance, Patsy resumed the position. There was a momentary cool draught as she felt her nightdress being folded back to expose all of her bottom, and what remained of her dignity.
“This may sting,” Aunt Honoria murmured.
Thwack.
Patsy jolted. Compared to her Aunt's hand, the slipper had far less philosophy and rather more conviction.
Mrs Doughty watched closely. “Good follow-through. Excellent distribution. Keep a steady rhythm.”
Thwack.
“Ow! Auntie, please—!”
“Engage the lower quadrant,” Mrs Doughty advised. “That’s where stubbornness tends to accumulate.”
Thwack. Thwack.
Patsy wriggled, but her aunt’s grip was implacable. The treatment continued in steady, humiliating increments.
Thwack.
“I’m almost certain I’ve learned my lesson,” Patsy gasped.
“I don't believe in self-diagnosis,” Mrs Doughty intoned.
Thwack.
Patsy’s world narrowed to three things: sting, shame, and the clipboard woman’s unbearable running commentary. Eventually, after what felt like a public humiliation disguised as perverse physiotherapy, Aunt Honoria paused.
“What's your current diagnosis, Mrs Doughty?” she asked.
The woman consulted her notes. “A satisfactory first session, but I'm going to recommend weekly reinforcement for at least two months.”
Patsy groaned. “Weekly?”
Aunt Honoria set the slipper down with tidy finality. “There we are, dear.”
Patsy slid off her lap with all the composure of a collapsing tent. Her face was pink, her dignity was left in tatters, and her bottom felt heavily medicated.
“Upstairs and straight into bed,” said Aunt Honoria. “Prescription complete, for now.”
Patsy tottered toward the stairs, her hands feeling the glowing warmth as she massaged her smarting behind. From the hallway, Mrs Doughty’s voice drifted like a spectre.
“Typical case. Responsive to treatment. Side effects include reduced sarcasm and improved posture.”
Patsy collapsed into bed with a whimper. Pride or posterior — she couldn’t say which throbbed more. But she did feel oddly clear-headed.
Act III: A Scandal in the Garden
The Langley-Williams garden party was in full swing. Bunting flapped, Battenbergs perspired in the heat, and the brass band wheezed its way through something almost jolly. Tea flowed like gossip, and gossip flowed like gin.
Patsy perched gingerly on the edge of a wrought-iron chair, shifting now and then with the subtle discomfort of someone regretting recent behaviours.
She wasn’t alone. Across the lawn, several other young ladies hovered similarly over their seats, daintily declining second helpings and avoiding brisk movements. It was less a gathering and more a symposium in delicate seating arrangements.
Arabella Thornton dabbed her brow with a lace handkerchief. “So,” she said knowingly, “you’ve seen Dr Blythe, then?”
Patsy nodded, lips tight.
“Sealed envelope?”
“Of course.”
“Dosage instructions?”
“And a supervisory visit.”
They exchanged a look of shared understanding and mild trauma.
Fiona, seated nearby on a soft cushioned bench, leaned in. “My prescription involved Mrs Doughty, and something that looked awfully like a butter pat.”
Arabella shuddered. “He said mine was a classic case of social flippancy. Suggested my godmother as the administering party. She took it very seriously.”
Patsy tried not to wince.
“I think I’m developing a phobia of envelopes.”
Nearby, Aunt Honoria was deep in conversation with Mrs Doughty by the tea urn. Both looked exceedingly pleased with themselves.
From the corner of her eye, Patsy noticed a familiar face slipping away from the marquee. It was Julian Marlow. He was a rather dashing young man, captain of the cricket team and suspected of mild jazz appreciation. He walked stiffly, eyes downcast, tucking a familiar cream envelope into his blazer pocket.
There was a moment of silence among the girls.
“Oh,” said Arabella softly. “Oh my.”
Patsy sipped her lemonade.
“Well,” she murmured, mostly to herself, “at least Dr Blythe believes in equal opportunity.”
She’d always heard prevention was better than cure, but judging by the state of the village, it seemed all of them were receiving both.
With a sigh and a delicate shuffle, she reached for another scone.
“Surely,” she thought, “Doctor’s orders shouldn’t be quite so hands-on.”
Extract from the private casebook of Dr Algernon Blythe, M.B.Ch.B. Case 417: Miss P. Featherstone — classic presentation of unchannelled high spirits. Recommended Course-A (domestic application). Positive early response. Notes suggest the patient may benefit from intermittent follow-up and restricted access to tennis club sherry. No allergies reported. Dosage adjusted per Mrs Doughty’s observations. Outcome: promising. Possibly curable.