8.40am and I’m sat in the GP’s waiting room, pondering what everyone in the room will do if I stand up and start bashing my head against the wall, when Fester walks down the corrider. I start getting Addams Family flashbacks as he stops at each door and mutters before floating past me with a blanket of B.O. and sits down. 10 minutes later and we are joined by an old gentleman with his carer, who is patiently trying to divert their conversation away from “who’s died recently down Bond End way”.
I go here often enough to not be fazed by the eccentric mix of elderly whom reside in this place. I have never had an appointment less than 30 minutes behind schedule so this provides plenty of time to check out the joint and “guess the illness” with my fellow patients.
It does mean that by the time my name is called an auto-reflex results in me propelling myself out of my chair at speed, instantly recognisable as my desire to get the hell outta this place.
Like most people here i’m looking for pills, the magic makers. I’ve had waves of insomnia over the past few years and it’s tidal wave time. I have the joy of being an old timer in the field of sleeping tablets now, so the GP can’t palm me off with a lecture on switching off technology and “relaxing…?” before bed. Which does not mean she does not try (I know she means well), so I relive the roundabout conversation i’ve had with several GP before this one and end up on the normal 7 day rescue package of the “Z” drugs.
Before I know it i’m out the door, flying past and avoiding eye contact with the hoards of dead-eyed souls still waiting to be given their drugs of choice.
Getting out of the building feels like surviving an endurance test.