the future medical capitalist

This past weekend we had a "playdate" for Logan at the home of one of his friends, and one of the favored sets of toys was a rather complete set of surgical and dignostic apparatus. Syringes (plastic with blunt needles, of course), Scalpels (dull), tongue depressors (not so depressing to look at, really) and even a sphygnomanomometer. The latter is known to most of us as a blood-pressure taker thingy. Logan decided he needed to take my blood pressure. He tried to wrap it around my upper arm but found it wouldn't fit, tried to wrap it around my wrist but couldn't get it to fasten, so at last I had to hold the ends together while he pushed on the bulb and made the little needle whir round and round. He did this for maybe five seconds. Then said nothing. "That's not being a very good doctor," I said. "You have to tell me what my blood pressure is." Still nothing. "What's my blood pressure?" I asked more directly. He considered his response carefully, staring into space for emphasis, then looked me straight in the eyes: "Fifty cents!"