Home » Musings » An appointment with the Doctor

jigsawI once had a friend who lived in a shoe, true story.

I know what you’re thinking, come on Skateface, but it is true, ok not a shoe per se, he lived in a place called Ashoe, just outside of Long Buckby. It was a small model village, mainly made out of cardboard and leftover jigsaw pieces that you just couldn’t be bothered to put back in the box from wherever they escaped from. Am surprised no-one has collected all the lone escaped jigsaw pieces and made one giant jigsaw, a hotchpotch hopscotch hot broth hotbed of miscellaneous jigsaw pieces. I can see it now, it will be all over the news, the new craze jigpotching, it will probably be called, and Alan from Ashoe-upon-tyne will hold the title of best jigspotcher of the whole jigspotching community, and tour the world with his wacky new way of recycling all the random jigsaw pieces he found…. people will be handing him jigsaw pieces, they’ll be custom making them from bits of hardened sandwich crusts, people getting married in suits made out of jigspotch, the craze will be endless. They’ll have to rename it though Jigspotch sounds a bit rude (as do most things these days, you can’t move up or down very fast for innuendo these days), actually it sounds like a very bad skin complaint… oof I’ve got terrible Jigspotch on my back, I need to book an appointment with the Doctor (Doccctorrrrrrrrrrrrrr look OUT BEHIND YOU IT’S THE JIGSPOTC….. ARRGGgghhhhhhhh).

That’s no joke actually, I had the terrible misfortune of going to the worst Doctor’s surgery ever yesterday. The worst surgery, the worst chance-meeting, and the worst kind of customer service you could ever not wish for. Settle down, stop with your jigspotchery you, and I will tell you what happened. What do you mean you’ve heard it/bored/trying to be polite and want to talk about yourself? Tough luck buster muster duster you, you’re going to listen and you’re blimmin’ flippin’ drippin’ ma mind is fillin’ up with the drillin’ gonna like it (that was a little rap-ette to distract you from the impending unbelievably dull tale of what happned to me at the quack’s surgery last week, I mean yesterday, look, are you concentrating on this or what? So there I was already not happy to actually have to go to the Doctor’s (don’t get me started on the next-to-impossible nature of even winning an appointment, wow, you need to have a whacking bona fide wide reason to even get to see the saintly priestly beastly god of gods that is the Doctor (Doctor?…. doc….tor…….. …… DOCTTOOROORORRRRRRAAAARGHGHGHHGHGHH). They’ve done something right haven’t they, pretty soon there won’t even be appointments they are so in demand, private, not private (imagine that, not private, you can see the doctor but only if they whoollllllee waiting room gets to see you strip down to your undies and they all get to laugh at you and listen in to your ailments) however you want to see the doctor in the future you will basically have to fight to see them, gladiator-style, they will be in such high demand that you’ll have to go into the waiting room tooled up, have a massive brawl with whoever happens to be in there at the time – all humanity will now be indiscriminate – you will be pitched against the old, the young, the guy that looks like Giant Haystacks, it’s up to you now baby, if you wanna see the Doctor so bad, prove it, fight fight fight (but I am illll, well you should’ve thought of that before you went out in the rain buster McMuster you).

Where the jigspotchery was I? Ah yes. I went to the Doctors, sadly there was no Sarah Jane Smith 🙁

At the Doctors, specifically the waiting room, you’re miserable to start with, otherwise you wouldn’t be there, you got something wrong with you, to the degree that you went to the Doctors – it means pills are no good, you got something serious that Lemsip, Night Nurse, or the real daddy Benilyn (named after the legendary Benjamin I Lyn, or Benny to his mates as he was affectionately known before that fatal morning), just can’t put that fire out, no matter even if you mixed them all up and downed in a shot glass (we’ve allll done it). My local Docs have put a new spin on things… a computer check-in. Now. Come on. This ssssssounds like genius. It is not. Press the button, hello, I pressed it, hello. Type in the first three letters of your surname, fair dues, S K A …. Type in your date of birth, ok, am loving this quiz, wait – am I going to catch germs off this screen, how many people of smeared their obviosuly germ-ridden filthy fingers across this screen? Too late, you’re in it to win it now, there’s no going back… then you get the classic…. ‘There is no record of your appointment’. Look you total mutha don’t give me any of this no record crap, I AM ILL AND I’ve flippin’ well got an appoinment because not only did I patiently wait a millenia to get the appointment but I used all my university degree skills to negotiate the appointment too, so take your stupid germ filth computer nonsense of a database that clearly doesn’t work and frig off back to the 80s sitcom from where you were clearly inspired you javascipt big graphic binary bar steward that you are.

I went to the reception desk (as you do). I told them my name. No appointment, a similar theme here (clearly the computer and the woman were in cahoots (in the joke together, not to be confused with the rock band ‘Cahoots’, although it is technically possible the woman had been in the band back in the day, hard to tell when my stomach was somewhat in let us call it ‘an unpleasant state’), although there was a comical variation to her mate the comedy computer, she said ‘What’s the problem, maybe the nurse can help you?’ I tried to whisper, but she was clearly from the school of ‘We’ve seen it alll before mister’ type person, I replied, slightly lying, ‘Stomach problems’ feebly putting my hand in the stomach region (to designate the stomach area in case the woman who charm forgot wasn’t familiar with anatomy). To which she replied loudly, clearly on purpose, ‘Have you tried Gaviscon?’ (named of course after the inspiration behemoth that was Gavin Scone), now seriously, is she a Doctor, who even is she? Maybe she was in Cahoots (the band) she certainly had a confident-I-used-to-be-in-a-band-type-way about her, maybe it was a whole highs and lows things, she saw the world with the band, had global adulation, and then one day WHAM! (not the band, the adjective, it would’ve been bigger than amazing if she was in Wham, she wsn’t George Michael or Andrew Ridgely for a start so I knew for sure) all the fame was gone, petered (not Pete Eard the actor, the filtering-out-type action) and banana frittered (actual banana fritters) away, just like Warhol told us it would (well he told me anyway, don’t know if you met him).  I have got a serrrrious problem Miss, that is whhhhy I am here, I am not here for my health (except in this example, I was, so that phrase was totally redundant and misused, she didn’t notice/care/live on what I like to call planet Earth however. She looked at me blankly (not metaphoric, she was looking at my blankly, it is what I call my non descript feautures), and told me that I could either see the nurse, or sit and wait in the random hope that the Doctor had a spare two minutes (unlikely, it seemed like each appointment lasted more than three weeks, in the decade that I had been standing there the waiting room only grew with more germ coughing, children crying, old people falling over type mayhem, and that is when, oh good god and grill me with lemon if it wasn’t my old mate ‘Mrs Bloke’ sitting there staring right at me. This day, wow. Amazing. Outside of the vacuum that is the Doctor’s waiting room I am a person, a nice person, some say a kind hearted person, a person nevertheless (neverthemore? neverthemoreorless), yet inside this specially reserved modicum of humiliating specialdom I am reduced to a laughed-at pus-filled bag of comedic ailments where even a computer with as much personality as a rancid anchovy has the power to mock me and call me a c*nt (0k, that is not strictly true, but in the dream I had last night it did, it was flashing in bright ceefax like letters the word, and eminating from it was a siren also so everyone could enjoy this very special moment).

I sat down next to Mrs Bloke totally defeated, deflated, and now dehydrated. ‘Dodgy tummy’ offered Mrs Bloke, ahhhh kill me nowwwww. Where is the number one place you don’t want to see anyone? Yep, the Doc’s waiting room. Oh god, what’s Mrs Bloke got? I have never been so pleased to hear my name said incorrectly ‘Marvin Skeet, Marvin Skeet to room number two’. I was blessed to see the nurse, who as it turned out was far more pleasant than the Doctor himself, let’s not get into that bedside-manner stuff, that Doctor does not have either trust me (his bed must be next to the wall, and his manner was surgically removed, whatever you do, don’t try and joke with him, jeez no, that would be far too close to being related to the humans.

So, look, maybe we (yes we), have stumbled on a solution here. No one likes going to the Docs (thattt’s right no-one), but, ahhh, maybe when you go to the Doc’s next time, everyone has to bring one piece of jigsaw with them, to play Jigspotch, that way you can momentarily be distracted from the whole viper’s nest overall, and play a bit of a fun game… at the end you take a pic of the Jigspotch, send it in to jigspotch.com and who knows maybe you will win jigspotch of the week, it could happen.

Stay healthy everyone.

3 thoughts on “An appointment with the Doctor

  1. Henrietta Lala says:

    WTH (I’m too much of a lady to say WTF). After putting up with all that drivel jigspotchery, I don’t get to know what you had wrong? I mean, if I can’t get in one single word edgewise or lengthwise about myself-I have needs too, you know-I want, nay, demand to know a diagnosis after having been dragged to the doctor’s with you. By the way-I worked in doctor’s offices for years and if you want to be fit in, get an appointment, be favored unfairly with beneficence, always, ALWAYS, take a treat for the gals in the front. Bag of cookies, brownies, tin of hard candy-whatever. Regifting is acceptable. Be sure you put a note on it with your name in large print. Smile hugely, hand it over and whisper, this is for y’all, I know what you have to put up with in this job…they’ll never forget your name, appointments will magically open up for you, and they will rummage through that closet where all the samples are stockpiled just for something to put on that Jigspotch on your ass cheek. See? Wasn’t that simple?
    Granny Lala in Louisiana

    1. Martin Skate Martin Skate says:

      WTH indeed. Apologies for keeping you in suspense. I could not agree more, although offering the front line some sweets I fear may not have been the best plan in that particular corner of the world that the rest of the planet had forgot. Regifting could be the answer; my garage is littered with neatly wrapped 2x AA batteries (the reason for buying 5,000 in bulk long escapes me). Which, aha! reminded me of the day I did the local dentists a favour… There I was cleaning out said garage and I stumbled upon a stack of sci-fi magazines from a while ago (Buffy was NEW! and there was something called Babylon 5, anyway), I thought hello hello, I won’t be reading these any more, but you know what Skaters I bet the Dentists would lovvvvve to have these in their waiting room, yes yes and yeahbaby, no more leafing through ‘Women’s weekly’ ‘Bella’ and ’16th Century Crop Rotation methods weekly’, they would lovvvve to read some Buffy stuffy. So I boogied on down to the dentists, whumped the stack of magazines on the desk and the lady looked at me like I committed some kind of major crime. I explained that I was purely giving them away out of the kindness of my two hearts (for I am a time-lord wannabe), she was confused, but after a few days she softened and finally relented/accepted the magazine buffy bonanza.

      So, look. Thanks to you Granny Lala, you were clearly one of the lovely ones, and am sure they’re all lovely in fact, it is the whole traumatising issue of being there in the first place that probably doesn’t help things. If I knew you were there maybe that would change everything. As for the ailment… well, now you asked -and thanks- I was feverish. The nurse immediately pinned the blame on the baseball-cap I was wearing, and said that was the reason for the fever, that I was cramming all the heat into my sweaty head. Now look here, I only put the cap on as a security-cap, I was illllll, gahhhh, there’s no winning there.

      Next time I will bring gifts for everyone. I will line my pockets with lollipops.

  2. Henrietta Lala says:

    Weeell, it’s a start, Skate. Hate lollipops-make it something involving chocolate. You do know there are codes put on your chart, right? A little mark on the outside that tells the doc you’re a pain in the ass or a hypochondriac, or just haven’t paid your bill in two years. If you are really clever, you will have already deciphered the esoteric body language, including the modified eye roll, that greets you when you enter and act accordingly. They give you hours to sit there and perfect your understanding of it by direct observation. It’s like studying chimp behavior in Africa. I enter any doctor’s office as if I’m trying to be accepted into a new tribe of apes. Any show of arrogance, indignation, or lack of the required cringing posture will come back to haunt you with one of those little demerits on the manila folder. The first clue is how long it takes her to bother to notice your presence and reluctantly reach up to give a fake smile and pull over that glass partition that serves absolutely no purpose but to intimidate. It’s not like it’s bulletproof. Charging up to their inner sanctum as if you’re in a hurry will be met with their first lesson-“Have a seat, please, the doctor will be with you shortly,” as they move your name further down on the list and put your chart further down in the pile (with a new mark). I’m only trying to help with this inside knowledge, not many are privy to the inner workings of these secrets. It’s passed on from one worker to another through years of indoctrination. Remind me to tell you how to look violently contagious next time so you will get moved to the front of the line.
    Granny Lala

Leave a Reply