Fit As A Broken Fiddle

I just can't seem to shift this cough.
It's been almost 2 whole weeks now.
It started off as one of those
tickles at the back of the throat,
developed into full blown pharyngitis
with accompanying rhinorrhea,
before moving up into the cerebellum for a day
and finally deciding to remove its viral shoes
and set-up home in my thoracic cavity.
The doctor's surgery on Sloane Square feels frozen in time.
The cramped rooms may aswell be illuminated by gas lamps.
Pinned and mounted to the walls
like framed butterflies
are many many
signed photographs of various stars of stage and screen.
And Jimmy Nail.
I perch on a padded high-backed green leather armchair,
whilst the physician takes my pulse
looks briefly at my tongue
and asks me how much I weigh.
He sends me on my way with a clean bill of health.
No materia medica is prescribed.
The German's have a word for men of his ilk.
And that word is quacksalber.