Accustomed to Waiting

I sat alone in the grey of the doctor’s waiting room. The other patients waiting were segregated from me; each had their own box, their chair, designed to prevent them spreading their sore contagion. Some child was chewing on the playhouse in the corner. I bet they all did that.

The old man opposite me started coughing. The man next to me wouldn’t stop twitching his hands. The clock above my head started ticking exceptionally loudly. The receptionists at the far end were ignoring the ringing phone and instead were having a chat about the weather. Occasionally the phrase, ‘what a cock-sucker’ would be thrown in. That was some bitchin’ weather on the way.

Shrinking slightly into my coat to escape the whirl of disease dripping down the walls of the room like some kind of rage-spaghetti (formed as a result of throwing spaghetti in a rage), I used my last ounce of give-a-crap to pick up a magazine. It was a typical waiting room magazine: four years old and packed with hints on how to spice-up your sexlife for an audience of pensioners.

In the magazine there was an interview with Renee Zellweger. My absent mind found itself drawn to the article. It was probably her roundness that did it. In it she was talking about how no-one is born accustomed to fame. But then indeed my dear Renee, are any of us born accustomed to the life we’ve generated for ourselves? Are we born to sit at a desk until we die, or to pretend to be happy to satisfy the great unwashed masses that would probably mug you as soon as you left work? Are we born accustomed to stress, or worries about money? Are we born accustomed to fear and hatred? We are as much born accustomed to fame as we are to anything else. Our lives are infact so lifeless and unnatural. Laziness isn’t a primal instinct, but depression perhaps is logical. I would remember to tell the doctor that when I finally got to see him.

I looked up from the magazine. Some patients had been replaced with others: the coughing old man had been replaced by a woman with a broken arm, and the child chewing on the playhouse was replaced by another child chewing on the playhouse. I flicked the pages between my fingers for a while. I would be a long time waiting before I saw a doctor. I picked up another magazine.


32 thoughts on “Accustomed to Waiting

  1. There is nothing quite like the realization that the chair you’re sitting in was pre-saturated with the rage-spaghetti of a thousand disease-nosed kids is there? I really loved the man with the twitching hands followed by the ticking clock! That was such an awesome audiovisual!


  2. haha – it somehow reminds me of the statistics that if you weren’t sick before you will definitely get sick when you go to the doctors – waiting rooms are terrible :D


  3. Tweeted! (depression is probably logical–agreed) “That was some bitchin weather on the way!” Love it. (Love your taste in lyrics too! The end of fiction. . .amen to that too!)


  4. I here because of the comment thread-and I’m damn glad I came. This is a lovely post with brilliant figurative language that I’m all pumped up for writing again. Great post and thank you :)


  5. I have had more of these visits in recent time than I would’ve liked. This wait to see the Doctor is made even worse when you know the Doctor is going to be a shrewd old gimp with a bad eye and a voice that’d make nails on a chalk board sound better.

    Also, love the new look and the purple thing gracing your head ;)


    1. Thanks sami116! I am also not a fan of doctors. I had one when I was living in Leicester who told me once that my condition ‘didn’t exist’ because he’d never heard of it and that it was my fault that I wasn’t getting better. Needless to say I never saw him again. If I’d have been thinking about it properly at the time, I should have gone on a muderous rampage… but never mind. There’s always the next time!


    2. That is hilarious! But I am still pretty drunk from last night. It might be skewing my opinion of the hilarious. Still… I’mma steal it as my own.


  6. I agree with Dark Jade on the line about “rage spaghetti.” I never heard it before. You may have created a new catch phrase. I love the new look of your site. I almost thought I was at the wrong blog. As always, thanks for a great read. You have some excellent “Simple Observations.”


  7. Can’t beat doctors, I had a woman continuously coughing at the back of my head one time, I turned around and said, “Did you never learn to put your hands over your mouth? Thanks for giving me fucking typhoid.”

    She started putting her hands over her mouth after that but it was too late, I had already moved. Seriously who needs to be told that anymore anyway.


    1. It’s the old people that make me want to grab hold of their lapels and scream in their faces. Stop talking to everyone that comes in! Don’t you know I want to be ill in silence?!


    2. I just came back from the doctors… I’m having to pay £98.50 for an appointment so that the DVLA can determine if I’m ‘fit enough to drive’. Diabetes is a pain in the arse. It’s a good job I have an overdraft.

      I’d much rather be having gender reassignment… it’d probably work out cheaper!


    3. Bah my dad has diabetes and he’s fit enough to drive, you’ll be fine, I wouldn’t have even told the DVLA I had it! Deceit never hurt anyone :)


  8. The child chewing the house was me, om nom nom.

    The receptionists at the desk in a doctor’s surgery are the worst people in the world, arrogant and rude old witches despite not being qualified for anything.


    1. I wholeheartedly agree with you! Work of the devil, doctor’s receptionists. And careful you don’t get AIDs, young man.


  9. DAMN YOU RENEE!! DAMN YOU TO HELL!! lol Very Well Written, and so damn true… I hate going to the the Doctor’s, there’s just no two ways about it. How about when someone’s on their Cell Phone, in that 6 by 6 foot space…

    My Favorite Part was “Shrinking slightly into my coat to escape the whirl of disease dripping down the walls of the room like some kind of rage-spaghetti” lol It’s the worst

    Good Job Anna



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