A Tale of the NHS

The waiting room on my second attempt.

"We have one less number to wait," the chubby woman with a barber haircut and slightly German accent said as she nodded to the floor below the ticket dispenser.  She was advising the couple who had just sat down and were wondering aloud how long they were going to have to wait holding the No. 89.  No. 85 was on the being-served screen and No. 87 was on the floor next to the water cooler.

Once the advice from the woman sunk in, the very tall African man stood and put one long leg over the coffee table and then the next, bent over, picked up the stray ticket and returned to his mate, ticket in his beak - I mean hand.  She was an aged rocker - lamb skin lined leather jacket, similar hat, big sunglasses and heavily made up.  She giggled and thanked him in her slightly Spanish accent as they nestled into their little love nest of chairs between me and the slightly German woman.  It was all a bit sickening given their age.

But, they were chuffed now - one number less to wait.  Unfortunately for me, I held No. 88 and was now three in the queue rather than two.  After I had sat down, I had seen No. 87 on the floor.  My view was there was no point picking it up as it would only take them a few seconds to realise and skip over it.  Oh, well, my mistake.  It wasn't like I had a lot to do that day since I had set the day aside for my first experience with the medical side of Britain's National Health Service (NHS).