When the War ended my father returned to his village in the heart of Scotland.

Bonnybridge had limited claims to distinction. The principal employer was the Brickworks.

This was a disadvantaged, working-class community. Men were men, and women were grateful.

My father had qualified in Glasgow as a doctor, subsequently specialising in Surgery.

He had served valiantly during World War Two.

His bravery under fire had won a Military Cross.

It was all new to my Dad. A general practitioner for the first time. He knew his stuff, of course.

But the special challenges associated with serving the basic medical needs of a small local group of straightforward, relatively unsophisticated people required skills he had to acquire "on the job."

My father was visiting John's flat for the third time. Big John was even more distressed. His face was red. He paced up and down, clutching his midriff.

Severe constipation is no laughing matter. John was cursing. Aperient pills, powerful liquid "jollop", had sequentially failed to clear the blockage.

Dad played his trump card. Suppositories. He produced two brown half-inch torpedoes from his medical bag. John looked impressed.

"Put these in your rectum before you go to bed tonight. I'll be back tomorrow to see the results."

John's flat was my father's first call next day.

To his surprise and dismay John was still prowling like a wounded tiger, now purple in the face, muttering foul imprecations under his breath.

"No luck, John?" my father enquired.

The silent agitated response was reply enough.

"Did you put them in your rectum, like I said?"

"We looked everywhere, but couldnae find a rectum. So I put them in that jar on the mantelpiece.

For a' the good that did I might as well have shoved them up my f***ing a**e!"