I needed an ultrasound on my ankle and my GP sent me to a
clinic in an unfamiliar part of town. We
had no trouble finding it and presented ourselves at the reception area. It was a good-size room with the most
prominent feature being an enormous Old English Sheepdog, sprawled across a
mattress along one wall. The creature’s
head kept slipping off the mattress onto the shoes of a waiting patient who
had, for some reason, chosen to sit as close to the dog as possible.
While I was waiting, an elderly woman came in, presented herself
to the receptionist who checked her details.
When asked her date of birth, she proudly announced, “27th of
October, 1942,” turned around and looked at me and repeated as if to challenge
me, “1942!” Taken aback somewhat, I
responded, “Well done! You’ve beaten me by several months. I wasn’t born until early 1943.”
After she sat down, the receptionist called out to her, “Have
you ever lived in Carrins Avenue?”
“Oh, no,” said the woman, “but the last time I came here you
had builders in and I had to go to a room down the back of the building. I don’t think I could find my way back there
now. My address is 72b Penquite Road but,
before that, I lived in Carrins Avenue.”
The receptionist just smiled.
A buzzer rang and I was shown into an adjoining room where
the lights were dimmed. A cheerful young
woman said, “Hi, my name is Mandy. Do
you need a hand to take your trousers off?”
Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?
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