The Prescription

Warning: While this piece is set today, the character it features is a man brought up in the 1970s and 1980s and so reflects the language and social attitudes of his time.

When I arrived at the surgery, I should have realised it was all wrong. I hadn’t been for what… fifteen years and that was only for a prescription for my athlete’s foot. Pharmacist said, sorry love you’ll have to see doctor for that, it looks quite offensive. I said there’s nothing offensive about my foot and don’t ‘love’ me. She was quite put out but I acquiesced and found myself in the waiting room that could have benefited from a lick of paint and some plain common sense. I mean, what’s the thinking behind having a communal play area for the toddlers, who seem hell bent on smothering saliva over every other Lego brick while their parents are more interested in reading last month’s beauty magazines than keeping a watchful eye on their roaming progeny. Talk about spawning… it was like something from a community-based drugs trial. Beauty? They’d do better to develop some higher-order skills. I doubt they could even read – lot of pictures in those magazines.

Well some things hadn’t changed. The Lego had been upgraded to classic wooden toys, although the one kid was doing his best to remove the driver’s head with his mouth. Teething he is, whispered his mother when I shot a look of circumspection. Didn’t seem phased at all. One thing that had changed, though was the chairs. I mean don’t get me wrong, they were tasteful and offered a degree of comfort that I wouldn’t complain about, but it was the two chairs by the toddlers that confounded me. They were a cross between an oversized armchair and a two-seater sofa. I mean I was surprised there wasn’t a chaise longue and a grape dispenser. Healthy eating gone bananas. No, the fact they were positioned by the toddlers’ play area led me to thinking that they were family-oriented, but then a gentleman alighted on one, whose belt was not only on the last hole but was more like one of those things they use for climbing up telegraph poles. Maybe it was glandular, but it wasn’t a pretty sight seeing the arm rests dig into his ample form. I shouldn’t judge, I said to myself. Everyone’s different. Some more so than others.

I ended up waiting for a very long time. The ten-minute slot system obviously seemed to have slipped again. It always confounds me – I mean waiting times. We seem to have made it a national preoccupation. I know we British do have a certain predisposition to the ‘dutiful art of waiting patiently’, but then, of course, they turned it into a university discipline with armies of statisticians engaging in what is quite obviously a futile exercise in time and motion, or lack or motion and waste of time. Cut the red tape, I say. Natural slippage, we know we’re going to have to wait longer. Not like the Germans or the Japanese. No, if they say 11 O’clock you may as well saunter in for half-past and you’d still have time to read the obituaries in the local broadsheet.

I don’t though. Not anymore. Not as a rule… I try to flick past the obituaries and proceed directly to the small ads. I find it’s always very compelling. I mean not whether someone’s selling raffia dining chairs or a full patio set for that matter, but you get a taste, don’t you, build a bigger picture of what the community vendors now consider to be surplus to requirement. You see with all these housing estates popping up, our community’s not what it used to be. No. Lot of young ones in training shoes, who when they look at the likes of me probably think, well you’re surplus to requirement. And then they carry on chewing their gum and fiddling endlessly with their portable phones.

I don’t like to stand in judgement, even I used to be young once – well according to my medical records. When I said the last time I crossed the threshold was fifteen years ago, that’s not strictly true. True in terms of athlete’s foot and other medical afflictions, to which I have a proven track record of natural resistance. Mind you, I don’t go in for all these healthy living fads. I’m not a fan of anything herbal and I thought the glycaemic index was something you’d find in the Classical History section of the local library. No, I would attribute my robust fettle to daily constitutionals and my unswerving belief in the hot water bottle. They should issue them on general prescription to boost the health of the nation. But these youngsters… from what I see, they’re more interested in another kind of bottle. No wonder we’re all labouring under these waiting times. I mean look at that one, I thought to myself. He’s even got his shirt buttons done up wrong. Imagine what the doctor’s going to think when he sees that and asks, so how can I help you today then? Well you can start off by removing your shirt and buttoning it up properly. Probably the most exercise he’ll have had in a long time. I bet his chest is covered in those Chinese tattoos as well, as though quoting Confucius is sartorial all of a sudden. They probably translate as Made in Saigon or Please remove the film cover before cooking. I’m surprised he didn’t drop dead of shame or fatigue, talking of which…

Oh, finally, my turn… although why they employ some robotic voice attempting the pronunciation of a fairly standard Yorkshire name is beyond me. Mi-ster Cloo-G to Room Three. It’s Clough as in Brian… although my name’s Alan… surely, they can program these computers with a bit of historical and cultural awareness?

I’m standing up now and all of a sudden feel like sitting down again, but I must brace myself with a bit of stiff upper lip. Chin up, chest out, Alan… Come on, be brave.

I hope it’s not that tall doctor, the one who looks at you, the picture of sincerity, while the one eye has a tendency to stray out of his desired line of vision possibly to catch a drift of how many minutes are remaining in the allotted time slot. It’s like you’re there under double scrutiny, not only the need to perform, by which I mean communicate all the necessaries, but do so pretty sharpish. He wants it all wrapped up with a minute to spare so that he can write out another script and shepherd you to the door while nodding affirmingly like one of those toy dogs glued to your car dashboard.

I’m at room three now.

I’m going to knock.

Come on, Alan, just put your fist to the door and hope it doesn’t open in an act of unfortunate serendipity. I’m knocking. Oh, thank God, it’s not the tall one.

She’s looking at me smiling, which is not so much disarming as… well actually, I feel like it may not be a performance smile. She has something about her, what is it? I think she’s nervous too. Maybe she’s already read my notes, which would give her good reason to be nervous. But I thought they trained for every eventuality, seen it all before, you can tell me anything Mr Clough, I won’t be shocked now. We dispense with the formalities, skirt around the short-term weather forecast in favour of the unseasonal abundance of grass pollen – I check my nose. So, what can I do to help you today, Mr Clough? There’s an awkward silence and I’m aware I’m making tipping head movements as though I’m ramping up to make the Kings Speech while overcoming a stammer. I don’t have a stammer, just natural hesitation or is it inhibition as though the reason for my visit is sordid or unpalatable to the ear. It’s not, but it eludes my tongue. I can’t speak it, just can’t say it out loud. I feel foolish and sense that I’m getting hot. I don’t know what to do. Should I make something up, another touch of athlete’s foot, but no, I know she’d see straight through me as though I were one of those types, who come in under the pretence of a sprained ankle just to spring an offhand Oh-while-I’m-here enquiry about something rather more intimate. She puts me out my misery by referring me back to the reason for my last visit. Has it got any better? Have things improved? She smiles again, doesn’t even think of looking at the clock, just smiles and I say, it hasn’t got any better. Should I expect it to? She just nods but I think her answer is no, not just yet love.

I’m home now. Glad to be out of that waiting room, I can tell you. Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I felt like the doctor might have left the microphone on so the whole consultation was heard by them all sitting on the edge of their seats and were about to welcome me back into their midst with a round of applause and sniggers. No. Head down and I was out through those doors without even a thank you and goodbye to the receptionists. Not that they listen. Always very brisk on arrival and ensconced in trivial conversation upon departure.

I’ve got the kettle on ready for a cup of tea and I’m going to treat myself to a shortbread biscuit. I don’t mind if I do. In fact the doctor, who turned out to be… utterly charming, told me, Mr Clough – Alan – don’t be too hard on yourself, and don’t be in a rush, whatever you suspect everyone else might think or expect of you, trust me, these things take time. I should know. And don’t forget to give yourself a little treat every now and then, just to remind yourself, you know… and she winked at me. Not a flirtatious wink, she was half my age, more of a just an our-little-secret-no-need-to-tell-anyone-else kind of wink. She didn’t tap her nose with her finger, that would have been taking it one step too far. And that was her prescription. No script. No tablets. Just some good old-fashioned common sense with a smile that you could hang in a picture frame and that little nod that says, you’re alright chuck. I know he’s gone, but you’ll be alright.