The Joyful Experience of Visiting My Local Doctor’s Surgery
(A Comedy in One Act)
I should’ve known what kind of day it was going to be the moment I arrived and found a man with a majestic string of snot dangling from his nose, loitering near a self-check-in screen that had clearly given up on life. Beside him stood a receptionist… let’s call her ‘Madam Cheer’… barking instructions with the grace of a drill sergeant on her third divorce. Right next to her was a sign: ‘We do not tolerate abuse towards our staff.’ The irony was so thick, it could’ve been spread on my sourdough.
This was of course, the very same receptionist who once refused to book me in for an appointment. Despite us being physically in the same room, breathing the same recycled air… she told me with a straight face that I had to use the app. “It’s policy,” she snarled, as if I’d asked her to perform open heart surgery. I managed it, but I did wonder what poor Mr Jenkins, aged 93 with a Nokia from 2006 and eyesight like a bat in daylight, was supposed to do.
Now doctor’s waiting rooms have their own ecosystem. A sort of wildlife documentary setting where the unspoken rule is, do not make eye contact. I passed the time playing ‘Guess the Ailment’ while silently judging everyone’s socks. Some people whispered their entire medical history to the stranger next to them, while others buried themselves behind sticky, outdated issues of Woman’s Own from 2014, praying they didn’t run into Sandra from the bowls club.
Children screeched like banshees, crawling on floors so germ-ridden even bacteria were wearing hazmat suits. Elderly ladies tried distracting them with high-pitched coos, while the mums stared into space, clearly enjoying a few moments away from CBeebies.
Eventually, I found a chair that looked like it had survived both World Wars and a minor kitchen fire. The carpet… which might have once been green… was held together by more gaffer tape than a UPS package shipped from New Zealand. A noticeboard proudly declared ‘You are welcome to breastfeed here!’ which is great, though slightly out of place next to a poster about prostate exams.
Earlier that day, they’d rung to ask if they could push back my appointment due to “staff shortages.” I said “yes”, because I’m British and therefore biologically programmed to be apologetically agreeable. Fast-forward three hours and I’m still waiting. Nurses waddled past in uniforms clinging on for dear life, each holding Important bits of paper that apparently couldn’t cure the waiting room plague spreading around me.
And let’s not forget the ‘Suggestions & Complaints’ box… a sad little wooden casket, already full of passive-aggressive notes written in shaky biro. I didn’t dare contribute. I value my place in the queue, and who knows what happens to people who suggest things.
The Wi-Fi on the plus side, was fabulous… clearly they’ve accepted that most people will be there long enough to start a part-time degree.
Interior design? Think haunted Victorian orphanage meets a school chair graveyard. The front door boasts fresh graffiti, possibly more recent than the last coat of paint.
Finally, my name was called. I nearly wept with joy… until I heard those ominous words… “Is it okay if a trainee takes your blood?” Trainee... Not “New nurse,” or “Junior,” but Trainee… the medical equivalent of a learner driver asking if they can parallel park into your vein.
Now look, I’m all for education. But after weeks of waiting, a rescheduled appointment, and exposure to every variant of flu known to mankind, I politely declined. I wanted a professional. If I wanted a guessing game with needles, I’d have let that guy outside Cardiff train station who talks to lamp posts give it a go.
So no, I didn’t leave feeling reassured. I left feeling like I’d survived a bizarre social experiment. But hey, at least I didn’t get yelled at by the receptionist on the way out; small mercies… right?
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Chris Geiger, Author of The Cancer Survivors Club.
Daily Dose of Disbelief!
Bsky: @chrisgeiger.com
Bsky: @thecancersurvivorsclub.com
Bsky: @dailydoseofdisbelief.com
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