On Doctors' Waiting Rooms

I had to go to the doctor's this morning for some routine tests - apparently, my blood pressure is high enough to power a small central heating system and if my cholesterol goes two points higher they will be able to stick a wick in my head use me as a candle!

The visit started off on an almost surreal note as I walked in to find Dave Hill from Slade sitting there. I did the old hand-over-one-eye look around test and no, I wasn't hallucinating. There he was.

Dave (I like to think we are mates now) was accompanied by a simply beautiful woman
who was evidently no more than 30 which, bearing in mind he is about 85, wizened, balding and with the complexion of a lizard, I suppose is one of the almost cliched perks of being a rock star, past or present. Still, he really cheered me up. Pither is not in good shape and has never been a style god, it's true, but not only was Dave much, much worse, his clothes outdated mine by about 15 years.

Anyway, I had not been to see my doc (a fantastic bloke) for quite a while and I had almost forgotten what his and, I assume, all other doctors' waiting rooms are like.

The first thing of note is the magazines. Ninety five per cent of them are down-market women's magazines of the Chat or Me genre.
For the blokes there are just two offerings - one on caravans and the other on boating! Finally, there are Bibles. Together, I think they say a lot about the health mandarins' view of us plebs. They assume we are all either brain dead, too boring to care or cramming for our finals and so not in need of any life-saving help.

Secondly, doctor's waiting rooms make you acutely aware of just how ill society is. The bloody place was packed!

Next, if you manage to avoid the temptation to gen up on Posh Spice's latest vaginal lift or the genius which is the SaniFlush 950 chemical toilet for caravaners, there is only one thing left to do - play the "what's the matter with them" game.



Some patients spoil the game, like the little lad sitting there with a saucepan stuck on his head, the woman with her leg in plaster and the dribbling coffin dodgers. The work shy malingerers who pretend to whistle and spend their time nervously glancing out of the window and looking guilty as they wait patiently for their sick notes are also a bit of a give-away. Others are more fun. The jolly looking chap who tries to engage others in conversation and is apparently fit as a flea, for instance. Does that surface happiness hide a cripplingly embarrassing bowel condition, perhaps? The very good looking and snappily dressed young woman who looks around serenely at the notices on the walls. A barely suppressed bunny boiler doped up to her tits, maybe? Then there's the bank manager-type, immaculately dressed, not overweight or with evident signs of injury. Is he just one personal performance review away from going on a gun-toting rampage down his leafy cul-de-sac?

Finally, there is the "which one of these bastards is immediately ahead of me in the queue and how long will they take" game. I never win that one. I was desperately trying to catch of glimpse of the numbered little plaques everyone was holding to work out who was seeing my doc and who had Number 13 - I had 14. No joy. So I sat, and I waited, and I sat, and I waited. Eventually, the little illuminated number board on the wall buzzed and started flashing 13.
Then, to my horror, a great big fat piece in a spray-on tent stood up with the help of a walking stick and shambled towards the door. Shit!! It would take about half an hour to get her up on the ramps alone, I thought, let alone start diagnosing what was wrong with her!!! I was praying that she was a member of Exit and had decided to throw in the towel and just be put down - but no such luck. She was in there for ages, and ages, and ages, and ages. The whole bloody waiting room emptied as patients were called to see the other doctors and I was left sitting there until five minutes before the surgery was due to close for staff training. Eventually, Lavinia Lardarse waddled out with a clutch of prescriptions like Chamberlain returning from Munich.

I was only in with my doc for about five minutes and it was the usual. "Your blood pressure is ridiculously high, you're overweight and you smoke too much," he told me. "Get a grip, Reg. You'll be on the slab in six months if you don't," he added chirpily. So the diet has begun and I'm going to a smoking cessation clinic. Hurrah!

Doctors' waiting rooms can actually be quite entertaining so there's nothing for Grantham.