I don’t know why the put clocks in waiting rooms, they only serve to show how long you’ve been waiting for your appointment. No one arrives more than five minutes before their appointment, so watching the clock is pointless, unless you really need to know that it’s ten minutes late, then twenty, then half an hour. The ticking clock sets a rhythm though, and the wheezes in the room grow to match the tempo. You get the odd-cough too, as some kind of crazy off-beat.

And as the clocks ticks on, the room grows fuller. From time to time a muffled name comes through the speakers and someone waddles off down the corridor, one hand on the wall for support. You can’t help but people-watch in a place like this. Wonder what they’re in for. How sick they are.

After forty minutes (checked on both the wall clock and my watch) I go back to reception.
“I’ve been waiting for forty-five minutes”, I say the words clinging to my throat, aching in my head.
“I’m sorry, but we’re very busy. I could make you an appointment for tomorrow if that would suit you,” says the receptionist, a line that’s been delivered a dozen times or more already this morning.
“No, I’ll wait,” I say, unable to bear another night so bunged up I feel like my head’s going to explode.

I sit back down and pick up a random magazine. Open-mouthed I gaze at pictures of shiny celebrities, wondering why people really care, how they can even keep up with such things. Then I turn the page and seeing a picture of Brad and Jen together realise it’s out of date. I don’t know why I even know that.

Placing in back on the table I start people-watching again. Many of the faces I saw when I first arrived are still here. I watch one man leave and I’m sure he came in significantly later than me though. The tannoy crackles. I see ears prick up all around me, but it’s another name that’s not mine. It’s not even my doctor. I don’t think she’s called anyone since I’ve been in here.

I need to pee. But if I go to the loo, and I get called, I might not hear it. Looking at my watch doesn’t help. Nor do any of the magazines. I’ve got no choice. Heading for the loos I see my Doctor heading for the staff room. Her head hangs low. I want to call out to her, but the sound of squeaky wheels distracts me. I turn my head to see a trolley being wheeled out of the back entrance, a sheet placed loosely over the body beneath.

It’s then that my head feels less heavy and I head for the reception, to tell them that I don’t need the appointment. I can try something else from the chemists. Life’s too short.