Inapt people make me ill, and sometimes delirious.

- Hi, I would like to book an appointment with the doctor for today, please.

- Eh, is it an emergency appointment you wantin'?

- Uh, yes [I lied because I knew that otherwise I would have had to wait at least a week]

- Right, can ye just hold the line for a minute?

- Okay.

[At this moment Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto starts playing while I’m put on hold]

- Eh, sorry ‘bout that. What’s yer name?

- Tra la la.

- Aand how dew spell ‘at?

- T for ‘troll’ , R for ‘retard’, A for ‘arsenal’, L for ‘lugnut’.

- You’re not registered with us.

- Yes, that’s because my medical records have been moved to the university where I study. Can I not register as a temporary patient?

- Eh, probably but I’m not sure.

[I didn’t know what made her so dumb but it really worked.]

- I just need to see someone while I’m home. I was given a referral by the university hospital to see a doctor at the end of term.

- Okay, I’ll put you in for an appointment today at 11:30 with Cath Bowell.

- Thank you. [hang up]

So I walk into the medical practice centre at about 11:25 and I give them my name and the time of my appointment. They tell me to take a seat and I do. I pick up ‘Vanity Fair’, since it seems to be the only periodical that’s slightly more decent than ‘OK!’ and ‘The Sun’. 10 minutes later my name appears on the screen followed by “...to Sr Cath Bowell”. Ehm, “sr”? as in, SISTER? What happened to my DOCTOR’s appointment?! You sure that’s not a typo? I swallowed the thought and rose to my feet totally unenthusiastic.

I knew I was on the way to the doom of 20 minutes of my life. They were buh-bye from then on. In moments like this, I start thinking about things that I’ve always wanted to do in 20 minutes but never have because if I did do them, then I’d probably run out of things to imagine and I’d be stuck in awkward jiffies seeking solace. Wakey wakey silly, your pants might catch on fire.

In front me there was a door that had the inscription “Sister Cath Bowell – knock before you enter”. My eyes must have somehow muddled the letters for I could now read a twinkly “Fairy Godmother Cath Bowell’s Headquarters – where all your wildest dreams will come true.”

Moriccone’s ‘Paranoia Prima’ starts running through my head. I push the door wide out of its hinges and I stand there, feet apart, eyeing her with my glass eye, fingertips opening. As she grows aware of me, the song changes to Luis Bacalov’s ‘The Grand Duel’.

- You alright love? What can I do for you today? [Song changes again to Bernard Herrman’s ‘Twisted Nerve’]

- I’ve had this problem since November, so please... don’t let me be misunderstood. Sometimes I feel a little mad, but don't you know that no one alive can always be an angel? When things go wrong I seem to be bad, but I'm just a soul whose intentions are good. Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood. If I seem edgy I want you to know that I never mean to take it out on you! Life has its problems and I’ve got my share, and that's one thing I never meant to do...oohh noo.

[Thank you Santa Esmeralda for the inspiration. It broke her heart it did. I could see it in her eyes, the juice of emotion!]

- Flowerpot, unfortunately I don’t qualify in these matters, I think you should probably see a doctor instead. Go to the girls at the reception and ask them if you can see a doctor.

- But I already did, this morning over the phone, when they booked my appointment in with you.

- Oh, sorry ‘bout that, things like that can happen.

- Ok thx bye.

- Bye love.

I left the room wishing that I slammed the door behind me. When I walked past the reception, I kept wishing to shout in anger: “A nurse can’t make my wildest dreams come true, you thickos!”. They might as well have started singing gaily in chorus: “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, it’s you that pays us for the shambles!”

I walked out with my loyal cough holding me by a sweaty hand, and outside a lonely shepherd’s song was playing. Se rupsese filmul.