At the doctor's

The last time I was at the surgery was before Christmas when I had earache. Then, the waiting room was a cramped, unpleasant place, funnelling patients to Reception through a narrow space bordered by a table bearing an artificial Xmas tree and other people's knees. Children's toys were scattered across a mucky-looking green carpet that looked as if it harboured every germ and bacteria from Measles to MRSA.

What a pleasant surprise when I walked in this time. A new laminate floor, freshly painted walls and an impression of space and airiness. And for the first time I actually got a seat and didn't have to give it up for some poor rickety soul on sticks, or a heavily pregnant teenager in pubis-clinging tracky bottoms and a t-shirt that begins just under her massive chest, displaying, from the rear, a pile-cutter thong and a tattoo of an extremely ugly fairy.

I got seen on time, was greeted with a warm, genuine looking smile of welcome and felt my woes were actually listened to. She even let me discuss two ailments instead of the usual one per ten minute appointment. The upshot is a month's supply of Ranitidine (which the chemist had run out of) and a note to get the bad finger x-rayed at the hospital. This will require leaving early one morning to get near the front of the queue. Today was not the day.