THE WAITING ROOM

I went back to the doctors' today. I'm always amazed at the warm smell of TCP.

I punched in my numbers on the check-in thing and then took a seat on the sickly green chairs.

They have a flatscreen TV now, displaying all sorts of medical information, and occasionally, which patient ought to go to which treatment room.

I still remember when a nurse would pop her head round the corner and call your name. As it is, there's very little human interaction in the waiting room these days. Just coughing and pushchairs. And (as A4 posters with too many exclamation marks decree) no mobile phones.

Just as I was thinking about the days when a nurse would pop her head around the corner and call you through, a nurse, dressed in pink, appeared, popped her head around the corner, and said:

"Anyone for an ultrasound scan?"

I was so bored I almost stuck a finger in the air with a cheery 'Ooh, yes please.'

I'm quite glad I resisted. I need to remember that not everybody in the world shares the same sense of humour as me. In fact it's probably even less likely in a doctor's waiting room.

A few minutes later, while I was contemplating the usefulness of antibiotics and the kind of situations when I might consider a chaperone, the screen flashed a gigantic word in wobbbly green letters.

'Chlamydia'

I'm not sure it's quite necessary to display that word as though it's the opening to an episode of Scooby Doo, I thought, silently.

I scanned the table for a copy of Heat Magazine or something; I guessed Astronomy Weekly was a bit too much to hope for. Nothing.

Thankfully, the informative slide on the side-effects of Chlamydia was interrupted by my own name flashing up and telling me to go to Treatment Room 12. Which I did.

The doctor has given me dexamethasone and neomycin sulphate. I have to spray it in my ear three times a day. It will be uncomfortable but I certainly haven't lost my gratitude to Heaven for showing medical people how to make antibiotics.