I'm in love. With Ireland.

I’m in love.  With Ireland.

Cannot say it was love at first sight, that first step onto Irish soil was not the most endearing.  Actually, my first steps were not on Irish soil, they were on Irish concrete tarmac as I disembarked from the ferry that sailed me here from Wales I walked off onto the footpath to Dublin.  Walked the one hour walk from the port into Dublin city, all on concrete and asphalt, alongside all the giant, articulated trucks and caravans that had come over from Holyhead on the ferry and were then motoring from the port to disperse all over Ireland's roads.

Am trying to do everything over here in the least costly way possible, so that meant walking from the port to my economy hotel in central Dublin, whilst all other passengers either drove, bussed or taxied into the city.  One would consider the walk could add to the experience of enjoying arriving in a new country.  It would do, if the scenery or surrounds were enjoyable.  But that walk was less than welcoming or interesting; it was through busy, loud, port roads, semi-industrial roads, commercial roads and roads that showed signs of the previous decade of economic slump in Ireland where there were half built industrial buildings that had been left as derelict for the past seven or so years.

GPS Segue

And bollocks to the two smug chaps back home who, during our lost walks in Italy in June, dared to suggest I should have taken a GPS with me to prevent being lost.  

I actually do have GPS on my phone but chose not to utilise it in Italy as our lost walks were through private vineyards and farms, not routes the GPS would have known about.  Plus, the fun of doing walking tours is working out the instructions given, not leaving it up to technology.

On this occasion I decided to utilise the GPS system on my phone for my Irish landing and walk, so the night before I logged it all in then wrote on a notepad the exact step-by-step instructions Mrs GPS gave me for my port-to-hotel walk.  

I got lost. It was wrong.  It sent me totally up the booai. I got lost due to the smart GPS.  

Same again when arriving in Belfast.  I wrote the GPS instructions down exactly as they were given, and yet again Mrs GPS got it all wrong.  I got lost.

So bollocks to you two!

Back to being in love with Ireland

Once into my 2 star Dublin hotel, I went out and explored the rather grey and old looking city.  

Within a very short while the grey began to become interesting and the old looking city began to look vibrant.  By the end of my first afternoon I found Dublin to be a city of much history, much character, lots of parks, a river (which I had forgotten it had), statues, monuments, interestingly tatty shops, hundreds of pubs of varying quality, busyness, cyclists, goals, graveyards, distilleries, breweries and a million-zillion pretty hanging baskets outside pubs, shops and hotels, of varying qualities (the pubs, shops & hotels that is).  I really liked this new city.

It has an amazingly big city park, according to one tour guide it is twice the size of New York's Central Park.  According to my afternoon guide, it is three times the size of New York's Central Park.  Whatever, it was a pleasure for me to run around a small part of it on my morning run.  And later in the day when I rested on a park bench it provided the funniest Irish situation story I could possibly have had.  I repeated the story on Facebook as being on my own had no one to share it with, Facebook gave me the sharing.  Will cut and paste it here.

Quote of the day:
In a park here in Dublin this evening, on a park bench watching people. There was a dad reclining in his deck chair near my park bench reading a paper, with cigarette in his mouth - while his kids and a bunch of others were playing on the grass in front of us with cricket bats and balls. Then a young 7 or 8 year old son comes running up to the father in the deck chair and with tears in his eyes exclaims to his father, "Daadee, Liam's pinching ma balls!" To which his father, without even dropping his newspaper or taking the cigarette from his mouth, straight faced replies, "Mother of God son, get used to it! Ya mammy's bustin' mine every day."

I chuckled all afternoon at that.

Meanwhile:

During the wanderings and exploring felt it was the right thing to do to go and have a Guinness in an Irish pub somewhere, so stepped inside one which I thought looked quaint.  It was a case of two steps in, two steps out.  That old, stale pub aroma was enough to put me off and besides, Guinness was never high on my list of delicacies I must have before I die, so the retreat was hasty.

Plus, it’s not easy being a one-person tourist at times like that.  It’s no fun going into a pub alone.  There is no one to share the pub odour with, no one to chat with over the pint of whatever, and most of all, no one else to pay the tab.  So it was to the next tea house for tea and sticky buns.

Another segue

One of the many negatives about travelling on your own and travelling when you are skint, is where to and the cost of evening eating.  There are only so many Subways one can literally stomach before that aroma of Subway baking bread becomes nauseating.  And there are only so many meals of fish and chips one can have each month before one begins to explode.  Am over the heading to the local Tescos or Sainsbury’s for bread, stale pre-packaged salads and cheese.  So on my first night in Dublin I asked the landlady of the cheap hotel if she had any suggestions of where a woman on her own could go to have something reasonably nice, something reasonably inexpensive and something reasonably healthy to eat for her evening meal.  She directed me to the pub across the road, O’Sheas.  And informed me it was as good as any other good eating place in town.  With that settled in my mind I spent the afternoon walking and sightseeing and looking forward to popping into O’Shea’s for my nice, inexpensive and healthy evening meal before walking across the road to my hotel to bed down for the night.

By the time I finished all my touristing around it was nigh on 8 pm and my stomach was letting me know if was refill time, for both food and drink, so I headed into O’Shea’s.  Yet another little pub with many beautiful and well flowering hanging baskets outside.  They look beautiful, the hanging baskets, and cover a multitude of ugly building facades with their brightly coloured pansy and petunia faces.

Up the steps and through the two sets of swing glass doors I went, and two strides in.  In the time it took for me to open the door, enter and take the two strides all the five men at the bar who had been heavily involved in conversation, immediately stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at whoever this was who was entering their sacred haven.  Seven sets of eyes on me, and silence (there were two barmen).  

Not able to instantly withdraw my steps due to the high scrutiny I was getting, I hesitated momentarily before my conscience had me move forward with my slow steps whilst my eyes were doing the million-mile-an-hour search around the bar to find where I could go and sit and blend into insignificance.  There was nowhere to blend, where ever I went I would stand out with my little back pack on, my walking shorts, running trainers and bright yellow Rotorua Marathon shirt on.  There would be no blending.  So went straight to the bar in the pretense that I am a regular walker-to-the-pub-bar-person while attempting to carry an air of nonchalance.

By the time I reached the bar the stale smell of two hundred years of deep fried cockles and muscles, and fish and chips, and battered anything that could be deep fried began to permeate my nasal passages.   And fill my lungs.  And invade every fibre of my clothing.

I guessed this would be a good time to order a pint of Guinness while I bided for time to figure out how to escape from this situation with some grace and without showing the awkwardness I felt in being in here.  So I looked straight at the barman and said, “Half a pint of San Miguel please.” 

Couldn’t bring myself to sup the dark stuff. Or to bear the time consumption a whole pint would take.

Then reached for the pub menu.  It was a large, laminated sheet that looked as though it had been around as long as the pub had been deep frying all those specialties and, as I had expected by this stage, had listed all the above plus more.  Delightful choices of cuisine – nachos – burgers – garlic bread – sausages and mash – pie and mash – and anything else that came with chips.

Fortunately the half pint of San Miguel was lovely, and cool.  And disappeared quicker than any half a pint I’ve ever had before.  

I left O’Shea’s.  I ate Italian.

And when the landlady asked me in the morning if I had gone to O’Shea’s the night before I said, “Yes, thank you very much, it was lovely.”  Then scarpered.

Back to loving Ireland

All that has side tracked me.  Despite my personal preference to not dine in O’Shea’s, it was still a quaint, little and very old Dublin pub that deserves to have many more centuries of customers drinking pints of Guinness and eating deep fried anythings.  It, like the other hundreds in the city, are rich with history and would have so many wonderful stories to tell, if they could.

           

There are a lot of people in Dublin.  More than I thought there would be.  However, I must remember it is high holiday season in this part of the world.  Which does account for all the obvious foreigners around.  Which makes it feel thriving.  I can see Dublin is coming out of the financial decline as there seems to be some building works around the town and quite a bit of road works and beautifying happening around the central city.  That tells me something is healthy in the city.

And the city is clean – as is Belfast.  Unlike Paris and all the cities in Italy where we were taken aback with the piles of rubbish, amount of street litter, smells of litter, graffiti and billions of cigarette butts everywhere, Dublin and Belfast are shining examples of people taking care.  Sure, little bits of graffiti but only spotted occasionally – and in Belfast there are all the huge murals (but they are not graffiti) – and no rubbish.  What a difference it makes to how one feels when walking around for hours.

Belfast – it was a real surprise.  It’s a really lovely, vibrant city.  I expected the doom and gloom feeling here and have been gratefully relieved to come to a city that makes me want to see more, to walk around more and to enjoy learning more of its history and cultural differences and clashes.  Yes, it is still a city divided, but they are working on.  But it really is beautiful.  In the morning I shall cross the road and run through the Botanical Gardens - the gardens that had the beautiful grass story which was posted on Facebook and I shall cut and paste here.

Was walking through the Belfast Gardens today - they are lovely - and there is lovely big square of beautifully grown, thick, lush, fine grass - when you see grass like this you are compelled to take your shoes off and walk on the softness and coolness of the green. Children would love it to play on. But there is a small metal, green painted fence surrounding the grass and it has a sign on it that says, 'No Ball Games' - to which someone has written with a marker pen 'Bollocks'

   

But it’s past midnight, in between these patchy paragraphs I have been watching updates on the Commonwealth Games.  It is fun watching a major competition like these when in another person’s country, or two, or three.  New Zealand never features, with one exception of a nano-second shot of our girl throwing for gold today.

More on my short love affair with Ireland another time.

Oh, one more classic Irish quote which I laughed out loud to today:

Was sitting at the rear of a crowded train when a man with an ugly American Pit Bull dog came on.  As expected the dog was pulling the owner in and constantly pulling on the chain lead. The man grabbed the dog (dogs reign in the Northern Hemisphere and are allowed on boats, trains & buses – another cultural difference) and tried to keep the dog still as he, the dog and 6 others of us were crammed in the end well space of the train carriage.  The dog kept trying to jump up on people and the owner was struggling to keep it calm. A woman and husband began talking dog talk to the owner asking what it was and how old it was.  The owner said the dog was only a 8 month old and he was trying to teach it obedience and was sure he would get there,  that, “the first two years are the hardest.”  To which a male Irish wit next to me responded, “And I tought dat was marriage!”

I burst into belly laugh.

Traffic Jam Reflections From Scotland

Last month a dear friend passed away.  She was not young, she was in her eighties and had been placed in a rest home at the end of last year.  But no one expected that her end was imminent.  She was not a physically strong lady and had never been.  She was unable to walk unassisted and had ear and eyesight problems.  But health wise, there was no real concern of any problem that would cast doubts that she may not live for another “wee” while (she used that “wee” phrase often, her Scottish heritage).

Therefore when I was in Italy and received an email from her son to tell me she had died I was in a state of disbelief and had to read and reread the email over and over again so that I knew the words I were reading were real.  It is so awfully sad to lose a friend but to lose one when you are so far away and without someone to share the pain with makes the grief all the more deeply painful.  It’s a lonely place to be – grieving on your own.

It was not helped by the knowledge that my being away overseas for such a long period may not have helped her will to live.  I am not stating that in an egotistical way but knew how important my visits to her were.  She did not have many visits from anyone and each day she would have great hopes that perhaps this day would be the day I or some other visitor would walk through the door to sit and spend time with her.  She loved to “mull” a few things over.

When I did last visit before my departure I was dreading the question which I knew she would ask.  She asked me how long I was going to be in the UK and when would I be back.  I hesitated as didn’t want to tell her, but had to.  When I told her that I may not be back until September I saw the instant blanket of sadness and disappointment fall across her face.  It will last forever in my mind.

I know my friendship with Ella was something she treasured.  Ella had moved from her homeland of Scotland twenty years ago when her husband had unexpectedly died;  she had left her life-long friends behind in the very street she had lived in all her married life.  When she came to New Zealand she was unable to make a new and real selection of her own friends as due to a mild handicap she was unable to get out and about and be independent.  Ella had to rely on having friends visit her, not the other way around.  And in reality, apart from her son, Tony and I were her only friends for a period.  Over the years two of our own friends did add two more people to her New Zealand  Christmas card list and gave her two more people to enjoy sharing cups of tea and scones and sausage rolls with.

Knowing what it would mean to her to not have my visits to look forward to for four months I made a promise to her that I felt would give her something to enjoy looking forward to.  I had told her that I would be making a visit to her home town on Dumfries, in Scotland, and that I would call and visit her friends and neighbours who she missed so much.  This certainly did lift her spirits as some of them had been regularly writing to her over the years and one in particular she held very dear.  That was a lady who Ella used to described as “my daughter”;  Ella only ever had one child, the son.  But Linda was Ella’s “daughter”, a lady, younger than me, who Ella had known when Linda and her husband had moved into Ella’s neighbourhood when they were in their twenties .  Ella had grown as fond of Linda and her children as any mother would for a real blood daughter and her children.

So I told Ella I would visit Dumfries.  I had no initial intention of travelling up to the West Coast of Scotland when I first planned my UK trip, but for Ella, it was worth making the commitment.  It would be the least I could do for her.  When I left that last visit to her in the rest home I left with a list of people who I was given instructions to call and see and a committed promise to her that I would take lots of photos – of her old home, her ‘daughter’, her neighbours and her friends.   That would give her much to look forward to, or so I thought.

But sadly, she died.

With her passing away there would be no point in making a trip to Dumfries.  There was no one to report back to, no one to take gossip, or news or photos to on my return.

But I have been.  Just been.  I have a strong loyalty to people who are important to me, and when I make a commitment to do something for them, I do it.  I will never knowingly let anyone down.  It was important to Ella that I go and meet with Linda, her ‘daughter’.  It was important to Ella that I go visit the street she had lived in.  The rest home she has worked most of her married life in.  The neighbours she knew so well.  The town and streets she walked and grew up in as a child.  It was all important to Ella that she shared her past life with me.  I had promised her I would go, so I went.

I am glad I did.  Even though I am typing all of this up whilst sitting in the biggest traffic jam I have ever experienced whilst driving back to Wales from Dumfries – and more than likely will have to make an emergency booking in a hotel somewhere – I have visited Dumfries, been hosted by Linda and been taken by Linda to all those places that were important to Ella.  And more.   Linda took me to Ella’s husband’s grave – the grave where we are presuming Ella will eventually be laid to rest, with her Jim. It was consoling to see where she will be laid to rest.

I felt sad, and I felt happy.  Linda and some of the old neighbours had some lovely personal reminiscences of Ella that gave one a small indication of how much Ella did mean to them and all their children for all the decades they and Ella had lived in the Dumfries.

Not only that, but I had had the joy of driving through the Scottish countryside, seen some truly beautiful countryside and coastline.  The weather has been absolutely magnificent with blue, blue skies and temperatures that one could only wish for.  It is mid-summer here and as a result the hills and fields look beautiful.  They are either being used for very picturesque cattle grazing, or for rye growing, or for hay making.  And today there have been many marvellous haymaking scenes of picture painting settings.  With that and all the woods and babbling brooks there have been a number of moments that I felt I was living in a Constable painting.  Just needed the little dog and the haywain.

Even now, being stuck in this major traffic jam - I am on a back B road in the Lancashire countryside and every ten or twelve minutes the car can move forward thirty metres – so over the past few hours I have moved a mere three kilometres -  but even in all this the countryside and the tiny little villages are beautiful that I have seen roads and villages I would never have seen had we not been diverted this way off the M6.  And I have seen them for a longer period than most!  A good ten minute stare at a village church spire does great things to the soul.

So, all in all.  Thank you Ella.  Thank you for having me travel to Dumfries.  Thank you for giving me some special Scottish experiences; thank you for enabling me to have a new friend in Linda, your ‘daughter’; thank you for having me spend some special time with her in her home and even meeting some of her family; thank you for having me revisit your old home and neighbours; thank you for taking me back to old times and for having me live in a Constable painting for a couple of days. 

Another example of how something sad, with a little planning, can become a magical lifetime positive - even in a horrendous UK traffic jam.

                                 

Next segue story

I know I have a sense of humour.  But not everyone enjoys my humour sense. That's OK. If you don't, escape now.

Moving on from my £7 Marks & Spencer’s story last week, there are a couple more rather silly, irritant chuckles I’ve experienced at the expense of the unexpected cultural differences in this part of the world.

Every time I visit these isles I am re-reminded of the fact that the United Kingdom has 60 plus million people living in almost the same area of landmass as New Zealand, but in New Zealand we have only 4.5 million inhabitants.  The mere difference in people numbers certainly means there has to be some very different differences in the cultural way of living.  Whether major or mere idiosyncratic.

It is the idiosyncratic cultural differences that I tend to find either interesting, or intriguing, or just plain funny.  

And yes, whilst the differences are usually petty and incidental at the time, I tend to see the amusing factor later and therefore they lodge into the memory banks as a great, minor story to be shared. If you are British, stop reading now – for fear of you taking offense at not understanding our antipodes funny bone - and I do not wish to offend.

Only in Britain: only in Britain do they keep their garages for the storage of junk, boxes, garden tools and equipment - while their expensive cars sit in the drive or the roadway to deteriorate with the weather.

I find that bemusing, coming from a culture where the sole purpose of the garage is for parking the car that is usually the next most expensive item we possess than the house itself.

(I excuse myself as a hypocritical example here – my vehicle does sit outside in all weather – due to being too large to fit down the side of the house to get to the garage – but that’s an exception, not the rule.)

Another idiosyncratic cultural difference is a commonly accepted one, queuing.   I confess to now love queuing in Britain.  It's fun. No one queues as well as the Brits queue.  They have to, there are 60 million of them, so queues are inevitable - but funny.

Tony and I discovered this in 2010 when we first headed for the Wimbledon ‘queue’.  We were fascinated that as soon as one joins into the one to two kilometre long queue a Wimbledon official immediately hands you a very compact and thick booklet entitled ‘Guide to Queuing’.  

It occurred again this year – I have another copy of ‘Guide to Queuing’.  The 2014 variety.  Not a lot different to the 2010 one I have. It’s quaint.  It’s British. 

There are a variety of other places and services for which one queues here, sometimes for inordinately long periods.  A main post office is an example;  one enters the post office and immediately goes to a ticketing machine to push a button to get yourself a queue number, then goes and joins the queue holding that queue number and seeking the illuminated sign that will, eventually, flash your queue number to tell you which teller number you can then go to.  All that to purchase your ninety-seven pence postcard stamp.  

Some supermarkets have this same system at the delicatessen and butchery departments.  And of course there are the train station queues.  They can be very long queues indeed.

But on this visit to the UK I confess to forgetting that one must also queue at the doctor’s surgery.  One does not enter the waiting room and approach the receptionist to let her know you are there, as we are so used to in New Zealand.  No. One must queue to see the doctor. Not only queue, but when you enter the surgery you immediately proceed to an automatic-teller-type machine and begin to key in your name, birth date and NHS number – it is only once you have done this that you are officially logged into the patient queue.  And then you wait until the illuminated flashing light on the wall at the other side of the waiting room shows up with your queue name and number.  Only then you can go see the doctor. All that without having to speak to anyone in the office or reception.

With 60 million people I guess that is an efficient way to do this. 
                            

Three weeks ago I came back from Italy with a rotten viral bot that infected my eyes, ears, nose, throat and chest.  I tried studiously the grin-and-bear-it self-medicating for the first week, but come week two I knew my self-diagnosis and medications actually required a little more assistance from pharmaceuticals that one would not have access to without a visit to a qualified medical practitioner.  Therefore I found it necessary to make an appointment at the local doctor’s surgery.

Fortunately I was staying with in-laws so requested the contact details of their long term doctor’s surgery and rang the office within one minute of their early opening office hours – 9 a.m.

Explained to the receptionist I was a visiting New Zealander who had returned from Europe with a bot or infection that I would like the doctor to check and give me medication for.  

It would seem they do not have many sick New Zealanders phoning up asking for appointments at this particular surgery, which I fully expected, but it would turn out they do not get many of any non-local people ringing their surgery for an appointment.  

There were a few considerable minutes of having to re-explain who I was, why I was calling, what was wrong with me, who gave me their contact number and details and why it was important to me I could come to their particular surgery as I didn’t have a car and their medical rooms are literally just a short walk away from where I was staying.

The lady had to leave the phone for a few minutes to ask someone more senior what to do with this strange, accented person who says she is ill and wants to actually see a doctor.  Eventually she returned to her phone and it seemed, with some minor reluctance, booked me in for a mid-day appointment.  The conversation ended with my being given strict instructions that I would be required to arrive fifteen minutes earlier than the appointed time so as to have enough time to fill out the paper work they would require for this alien to be seen by an NHS GP.

OK.  No problem.  

Fifteen minutes before the appointed appointment time I entered the waiting room of the doctors’ surgery.

I noted there was a prominent electronic machine in the waiting room corner with a sign on it saying ‘Patients please check in here’ with a directional arrow pointing to the screen; I momentarily debated what to do.  Do I go to the machine which would probably be of no use to me?  Or, do I walk straight to the reception area to speak to one of the two receptionists.  Being a good Kiwi I though who knows…? … maybe as I had rung to make an appointment earlier in the day the machine may be expecting me, so I shall firstly go to the screen and see if it is awaiting my arrival.

A few pushes on the screen button soon let me know that there was no machine expectation of my arrival, therefore it required Step B to be put into action – to  go to reception desk where two very efficient looking ladies were standing behind the counter beavering away with books, files and pens.  

Rather like my Marks & Spencer’s experience I went to the counter and stood there feeling like a square peg for a few moments, with both ladies very aware of my presence but continuing to continue that which they were studiously working on, before one actually looked up and asked if she could help me.  “Yes,” I responded, “my name is Verna Cook-Jackson and I have a 12 o’clock appointment to see a doctor.” 

A most quizzical look responded to my explanation of why I was standing there, preceded by a head shake and then a raising finger pointing me back to the direction of the automated screen from where I had just come from.  “You need to key your details into the machine,” she said.

“I have,” said I. “But that machine is for patients enrolled in this practice.  I am not, I am visiting from overseas and telephoned at 9 this morning to make the appointment and informed the receptionist then of this.”

To which she responded, “You did?' in an almost accusing manner, "Who did you speak to?”  

“I don’t know,” I said, “whoever it was who answered the phone. I didn’t think I needed to take her name.”  At this stage I was feeling a little irritated and awkward as the eyes of the other six people already sitting in the waiting room were all in my direction and totally involved in the two-way conversation between the receptionist and myself.

With a look of frustration the receptionist followed this with, “Well … what did you say your name was?”

Only then did she look into her MANUALLY written appointment book (so what’s the point of all the technology when they use a manual appointment book?!) and run her finger up and down the page to find my appointment listed.  It would appear her book did not have it listed as she shook her head, then lent across to the receptionist standing next to her, pulled her MANUAL appointment book over and ran her finger down that list.

“There is no record of your appointment in our books,” she declared.  

“Well, I know I rang here and I know I made an appointment, and I know I was told to come fifteen minutes early to fill in some forms so it must be somewhere.”  

Then came the inquisition.  “How did you come to ring this medical practice then?”

I responded, PATIENTLY (patience:  adj - something Verna Cook-Jackson has oodles of). “ I am staying with relatives who are patients at this practice, it was they who gave me your contact details.”

“Who are they?” was her tiresome retort.  

I gave her the name of my in-laws.  “What’s their address then,” she responded.  I gave her the address.  “And why have you come to see a doctor then?”   

To this I ssllooowwwlly responded with loud and clear annunciation (in case she may have had a hearing problem) that I had had a bot for ten days and was wanting some experienced medical advice.   “Well just a minute then, I’ll go and speak to our office manager to find out what to do with you.”  With which she disappeared leaving me standing there feeling like a piece of flotsam, to the entertainment of the other patients who were now intent on what was happening.

She eventually returned. “We have found your appointment, if you fill out these forms the doctor can then see you,” and she handed me a form and pen; with no apology, no explanation, not even a smile.

I duly filled out the form.  Handed it back. “Just take a seat and when your name comes up on the screen you go down the corridor to the doctor’s room.”  

I did.  As each eye from the other patients followed me – one could feel their great trepidation of fear that I may actually sit next to them. 
For their awkward sakes, I didn’t.  Plonked myself in a corner feeling reprimanded, scolded and as though I had been sent to sit on the naughty chair.  And watched the screen for my name to come up. 

It was a quarter past the hour of my appointment by now.  On the floor in front of me were two small toddlers playing with old toys that were supplied for their entertainment from a plastic bin on the floor by my corner.  Another small child was sitting on the floor next to them flicking through a book that was among several that the children had taken from the box and strewn on the floor.  They were cute children, enjoying their waiting time.  They had entertainment supplied by management to amuse themselves. They were lucky.

Another forty-five minutes later my name came up on the screen.  That is one hour and fifteen minutes since my first steps into the medical center and one hour later than my scheduled appointment.  

That forty-five minute wait was a long forty-minutes because not only did I sit and watch each one of the previous six patients be slowly summonsed to the doctor’s room, but I had made the mistake of not taking any reading material with me to while away the many minutes. That would have been fine in any other waiting rooms which always have old and tatty magazines or newspapers for patients to read whilst whiling away the time, but this waiting room had not one magazine or newspaper anywhere to keep the grown-ups happy and entertained while waiting.  Only a wall with various pamphlets relating to various medical conditions.  

My wait was so long that out of desperation I resorted to getting up and reading each pamphlet; I learned about Diabetes, Colon Cancer, Warts, Moles, Verruca, Bunions, Diverticulitis, Breast Cancer, Prostate Cancer, Tonsillitis, Cataracts, Arthritis and, interestingly enough, Stress Related Illnesses.

Just as I was deeply into the cause of stress and illnesses, my name came up on the screen. Dumped the pamphlets and almost ran to the doctor’s room where I was greeted reasonably pleasantly by a young, Middle-Eastern looking woman who introduced herself as Doctor Whoever (can’t remember her Middle-Eastern name) and followed that with,  “I apologise Mrs Cook-Jackson for the wait you have had.” 

To which I responded, “Oh, the wait would have been fine had there been any magazines in the waiting room for me to read to fill in the long period, but there were none.”

“Of course there are none,” she sharply retorted, this time not so pleasantly. “This is a doctor’s surgery and we can’t have people with germs and infections coming in here and reading magazines that the next patient would pick up and maybe become infected with.”  Scolding done.

“But….” my mind said, but voice didn’t, “I’ve just left three little children sitting on your general public waiting room floor, playing with dirty toys and books that have been stored in a plastic box on the floor for weeks and played with by heaven knows how many infected children, also sitting on the floor …!!”  

I felt it prudent I shut up, get my antibiotics and scarper.  Quickly.