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 Some patients had been replaced with others: the coughing old man had been replaced by a woman with a broken arm, and the child chewing on the playhouse was replaced by another child chewing on the playhouse.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.