A routine check up

I venture into the doctor’s surgery for a routine check up to be almost bowled over by the wall of heat that hits me as I walk through the door. I can almost feel the germs multiplying in such optimum conditions as I look at the pale grey people around me. The receptionist smiles. She’s inappropriately cheerful for someone who is sitting surrounded by sick people. I scowl at her, to reprimand her for her transgression. I try to find a seat away from the contamination. I sit myself near the children’s corner, where two rather snotty toddlers are vying as to who can make the most noise (drumming or on the xylophone) Perhaps I can immerse myself in a magazine. I rifle through the reading material deemed suitable for the patients. There is a children’s comic, several pages are missing. There is a tv guide from about 2 months ago (not terribly informative) and ‘Housekeeping’ with useful Christmas tips (it’s March).
Perhaps I will fare better if I read the informative medical literature on the wall. After five minutes I am aware that I have an 80% chance of getting bowel cancer (surely that can’t be right?) That flies are out to get me with malaria. That if the cough that I have continues for more than three weeks I have lung cancer. The only silver lining is that I need to don a pair of red boxing gloves in order to ‘fight flu’. I’m beginning to feel ever so slightly depressed.
I look round to see the same people, still grey, maybe a touch closer to death. No one seems to have been called in and perhaps more perturbing, no one seems to have come out of the surgery rooms!
A mobile phone rings, indicating that someone in the surgery is far too important to obey the signs on the wall telling them to switch their phone off.
‘Hello’ She yells. The receptionist tries to intimidate her off the phone with one of her best smiles. The conversation then turns to quite a bit of swearing. Which for ethical and psychological sanity I shall not repeat, but the gist of it dear reader is that the person on the phone is swearing at her daughter for swearing at her brother. Such irony.
I look at the clock. It seems to have gone backwards. I’m sure I arrived at ten past and now it’s only five past. I decide foot tapping may speed things along. It doesn’t. The seconds tick slowly by, as people drag themselves in and out of the surgery, coughing and spluttering. No one, but me, dares to look cheerful. At last I am called and am in the consultation room for a mere three minutes. I waltz out, feeling smug, sparing a brief thought for the poor ill people still waiting. I had it coming really. The germs got me in the end, I spend the next few days in bed with flu.


~ by envisioningutopia on October 22, 2011.

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