Dr Scarlet

Well, apologies for silence, but I haven't attempted to get any vaccinations for tropical diseases, nor have I housemates whose searing madness causes them secretly to decant my half-drunk coffee when I leave the room. And I have nothing to report from the weekend since no one has been sick on me recently. However, since sickness of various kinds is plainly theme du jour, I can report that I seem to have become the Classics Department's answer to House. Evidently the fame of my nursing exploits has led to a swift promotion.
Anyway, I had had the impression that the Woodbury Library was a small repository of philological resources, but this is clearly a trick of the elaborately wrought classical decor: in fact it appears to be the consulting room of some sort of General Practitioner who, I ween, looks not unlike me. Perhaps someone should replace the sign which must have gone missing from the door, and thereby spare the confusion of innocent graduate researchers into ancient languages who amble in for a quick squiz in Der Neue Pauly and instead find a wild-haired Scotswoman inspecting the anatomy of one or another comely youth. It turns out that I can diagnose tonsilitis, conjunctivitis and whatever it is that's making Hubristes' left knee all creaky, but if anyone would like to vary the diet then I can be found in there most days. I like to seem to be reading Hesiod, but in truth I am just waiting for my next case.
I do note, however, that everyone who has so far demanded that I fondle their neck, gaze into their eyes or stroke their knee has been a well-favoured young man; which, since they can have had no reasonable expectation of meeting with any medical expertise whatsoever, is rather intriguing. I wonder if I should abandon the high-minded pretence that anyone really wants me for my subtle manipulation of -mi verbs or cunning appreciation of Virgilian thematics and set up shop as a quack. I'd still get to be Dr Scarlet, but with a prescription pad. Oh, the fun...