Why is it that once you’re sat in the waiting room time just comes to a halt? How long have Miss Branson and Mr Matthews been waiting? Because I’m sure it isn’t as long as me and their names have already been called by the lady on the microphone. I hate that goddamn lady on that bloody microphone. And why is it that the child playing with the abacus won’t stop howling? I’m pretty certain that the child isn’t dying so why does he have to kill everyone else’s sanity just because he wants some fucking sweets.
There’s always that one person in the waiting room who, despite it being mid-June, decides that the appropriate outfit to visit the doctor’s surgery in is a thermal parka and Ugg boots, because obviously even in seventeen degree heat you need to wrap up warm so all these nasty summer bugs can’t get to you. Don’t even get me started on the geriatrics who take up their whole appointment hobbling to the GP’s office which means the rest of us have to wait another fifteen minutes because they can’t walk and they have to get to the other end of the fucking corridor. I’ve been waiting for this appointment for twenty six days now so the least they could bother to do was make sure things are on time.
When eventually the time rolls along that my name is called I swiftly head to Doctor Granger’s room and take a seat on the thin sheet of tissue paper on the examination table and she asks
“What’s wrong with you today then sir?”
If I knew what was wrong I highly doubt I would be sat here asking for a professional opinion.
Of course she continues with the questions,
“have you had a temperature?”
“When did it start?”
“Has anyone else you know had the same symptoms?”
I ended up leaving with the inevitable prescription for some antibiotics – because antibiotics fix anything and everything, apart from the waiting list for that god damn GP.