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Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. I want to tear the clock off the wall and stamp on it. I want to smash it with a hammer. I want to throw it off a bridge. I want it to stop.
It's wrong anyway. 8:45 by my watch, and despite the boss claiming otherwise, I know it's right.
Hundred and one, hundred and two, hundred and three... No matter how hard you try, you can't make counting the dots in the ceiling above you interesting.
A blip. We all look up like sheep. It's not my turn. How long has it been? Don't know what time I got here, but it was just before 8 when I left, and it only takes five minutes on the metro. With nothing to do but hate the clock and count dots, 30-45 minutes is a long time. Nothing to read, it's all "Now! The secrets of Charlotte Church!" "Hello! I lost 3 stone in two days!" "New Woman - My father is my brother!" "Utter crap - I want to murder everyone in this room!" Maybe I made that last one up...
Another blip. Not my turn. I was here before they were, in fact they were late to their appointment. I was five minutes early, yet I'm still here, sitting not-so-patiently, counting the dots on the ceiling. I wish they'd turn the heating up, it seems to be getting colder by the minute, and every time someone comes in a gust of wind sends a chill through my body. Someone's left their dog chained up outside. Through the window it looks at me with a blank expression. It'll probably get hypothermia and be seen before me.
The batteries on my MP3 player are dead. All I can hear is the tale of how next door's cat left a mess in the garden being regaled for the third time next to me, and Terry Wogan harking on about nothing in particular on the radio. Oh great, the kid's started crying again. The cooing and the begging and the toys have no effect. He wants to scream. And I feel like joining in.
"Leave him alone!" I'd shout. "Let him cry, it's the least you can do!"
Instead I just sit. And sit. And sit. What am I even doing here? There's nothing wrong with me. Wasting my precious free time out of work sitting in a moulding chair, listing to Wogan and counting dots on the ceiling.
Hundred and five, hundred and six. Too far away to distinguish them, now, but if I see how many are in one square and multiply that by how many squares there are, I can sleep sound at night knowing exactly how many dots are on this ceiling. My maths teacher would be proud.
Another blip. Not me again. Instead, the tale about the cat making a mess is cut short on its fourth telling and the old biddy waddles through the door. I was here before her. Then again, she probably doesn't have long; I've got the rest of my life to sit here and listen to Wogan and count the dots in the ceiling.
Oh crap, lost count. Got to start over again. Maybe I should ask the receptionist if they've forgotten about me. I'd rather stand up and kick and punch everything in sight, tear the place down like the Incredible Hulk before torching the building, but getting up and walking over to the desk seems the more realistic option.
She seems annoyed that I would ask.
"You'll be seen any second now, Mr..."
I don't even bother helping her out. I just got and sit back down.
Toys are scattered about the floor. A lawsuit waiting to happen. I remember being a kid and playing with toys. Transformers, He-Man, Turtles. There was always a Barbie doll in there too. Of course, it'd always been defaced by just about every lad who’d got his grubby little hands on it; the hair pulled out, the clothes ripped off, the face drawn on with permanent marker. I don’t even recognise the toys here now. Has it been that long?
Another blip. Aha! It's after 9am, about bloody time. They've spelled my name wrong, but I don't care.
The door doesn't open. Is every force under the sun trying to stop me today?
"Hang on, try now..." the receptionist tells me. I give it a kick for good measure, in return she shoots me a look of disgust.
All the waiting is over, now it's time for a clean bill of health and a five minute journey home to try and catch the end of that film I was watching.
"You’re HIV positive."
Hell of a way to start your day. The information, the booklets, the help lines, all of it washes over me. All I can think of is that it’s a hell of a way to start your day.
It's wrong anyway. 8:45 by my watch, and despite the boss claiming otherwise, I know it's right.
Hundred and one, hundred and two, hundred and three... No matter how hard you try, you can't make counting the dots in the ceiling above you interesting.
A blip. We all look up like sheep. It's not my turn. How long has it been? Don't know what time I got here, but it was just before 8 when I left, and it only takes five minutes on the metro. With nothing to do but hate the clock and count dots, 30-45 minutes is a long time. Nothing to read, it's all "Now! The secrets of Charlotte Church!" "Hello! I lost 3 stone in two days!" "New Woman - My father is my brother!" "Utter crap - I want to murder everyone in this room!" Maybe I made that last one up...
Another blip. Not my turn. I was here before they were, in fact they were late to their appointment. I was five minutes early, yet I'm still here, sitting not-so-patiently, counting the dots on the ceiling. I wish they'd turn the heating up, it seems to be getting colder by the minute, and every time someone comes in a gust of wind sends a chill through my body. Someone's left their dog chained up outside. Through the window it looks at me with a blank expression. It'll probably get hypothermia and be seen before me.
The batteries on my MP3 player are dead. All I can hear is the tale of how next door's cat left a mess in the garden being regaled for the third time next to me, and Terry Wogan harking on about nothing in particular on the radio. Oh great, the kid's started crying again. The cooing and the begging and the toys have no effect. He wants to scream. And I feel like joining in.
"Leave him alone!" I'd shout. "Let him cry, it's the least you can do!"
Instead I just sit. And sit. And sit. What am I even doing here? There's nothing wrong with me. Wasting my precious free time out of work sitting in a moulding chair, listing to Wogan and counting dots on the ceiling.
Hundred and five, hundred and six. Too far away to distinguish them, now, but if I see how many are in one square and multiply that by how many squares there are, I can sleep sound at night knowing exactly how many dots are on this ceiling. My maths teacher would be proud.
Another blip. Not me again. Instead, the tale about the cat making a mess is cut short on its fourth telling and the old biddy waddles through the door. I was here before her. Then again, she probably doesn't have long; I've got the rest of my life to sit here and listen to Wogan and count the dots in the ceiling.
Oh crap, lost count. Got to start over again. Maybe I should ask the receptionist if they've forgotten about me. I'd rather stand up and kick and punch everything in sight, tear the place down like the Incredible Hulk before torching the building, but getting up and walking over to the desk seems the more realistic option.
She seems annoyed that I would ask.
"You'll be seen any second now, Mr..."
I don't even bother helping her out. I just got and sit back down.
Toys are scattered about the floor. A lawsuit waiting to happen. I remember being a kid and playing with toys. Transformers, He-Man, Turtles. There was always a Barbie doll in there too. Of course, it'd always been defaced by just about every lad who’d got his grubby little hands on it; the hair pulled out, the clothes ripped off, the face drawn on with permanent marker. I don’t even recognise the toys here now. Has it been that long?
Another blip. Aha! It's after 9am, about bloody time. They've spelled my name wrong, but I don't care.
The door doesn't open. Is every force under the sun trying to stop me today?
"Hang on, try now..." the receptionist tells me. I give it a kick for good measure, in return she shoots me a look of disgust.
All the waiting is over, now it's time for a clean bill of health and a five minute journey home to try and catch the end of that film I was watching.
"You’re HIV positive."
Hell of a way to start your day. The information, the booklets, the help lines, all of it washes over me. All I can think of is that it’s a hell of a way to start your day.
Or you'd have hulked out, smashed stuff then burnt the building down.
T'was good. Perceptive descriptions on the things you'd notice and think while waiting, especially the comment about the dog.
Lousy surgery though, I'd have changed Doctors if I had to wait that long.
Lousy surgery though, I'd have changed Doctors if I had to wait that long.
Inspired by my wait to get a booster shot today, and the fact I have to get checked out soon.
Quite a light hearted view of someone waiting to find out if they are HIV positive. I'd be s'itting bricks personally. ;)
I hate waiting - no matter how-long I have to wait.
I'm too impatient. And having to wait an extra 2 months each time just to retake my driving test really does my nut in (this will be the FOURTH time, now!).
I usually find I hate waiting more when it's something I want or that I'm really looking-forward to. However, when it's some of the opposite, the waiting never lasts long-enough (like, the end of your lunch-break at work on a really crappy day). ...But I still hate it!
So, overall, I don't like waiting at all. I don't see how anyone can, really. It usually gives you plenty of time to do something, but, you appear to have nothing to do. And yet, when you have things to do, you never seem to have time to do them all, and crave for the kind of time you get when waiting for something.
Odd, isn't it...
I'm too impatient. And having to wait an extra 2 months each time just to retake my driving test really does my nut in (this will be the FOURTH time, now!).
I usually find I hate waiting more when it's something I want or that I'm really looking-forward to. However, when it's some of the opposite, the waiting never lasts long-enough (like, the end of your lunch-break at work on a really crappy day). ...But I still hate it!
So, overall, I don't like waiting at all. I don't see how anyone can, really. It usually gives you plenty of time to do something, but, you appear to have nothing to do. And yet, when you have things to do, you never seem to have time to do them all, and crave for the kind of time you get when waiting for something.
Odd, isn't it...
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. I want to tear the clock off the wall and stamp on it. I want to smash it with a hammer. I want to throw it off a bridge. I want it to stop.
It's wrong anyway. 8:45 by my watch, and despite the boss claiming otherwise, I know it's right.
Hundred and one, hundred and two, hundred and three... No matter how hard you try, you can't make counting the dots in the ceiling above you interesting.
A blip. We all look up like sheep. It's not my turn. How long has it been? Don't know what time I got here, but it was just before 8 when I left, and it only takes five minutes on the metro. With nothing to do but hate the clock and count dots, 30-45 minutes is a long time. Nothing to read, it's all "Now! The secrets of Charlotte Church!" "Hello! I lost 3 stone in two days!" "New Woman - My father is my brother!" "Utter crap - I want to murder everyone in this room!" Maybe I made that last one up...
Another blip. Not my turn. I was here before they were, in fact they were late to their appointment. I was five minutes early, yet I'm still here, sitting not-so-patiently, counting the dots on the ceiling. I wish they'd turn the heating up, it seems to be getting colder by the minute, and every time someone comes in a gust of wind sends a chill through my body. Someone's left their dog chained up outside. Through the window it looks at me with a blank expression. It'll probably get hypothermia and be seen before me.
The batteries on my MP3 player are dead. All I can hear is the tale of how next door's cat left a mess in the garden being regaled for the third time next to me, and Terry Wogan harking on about nothing in particular on the radio. Oh great, the kid's started crying again. The cooing and the begging and the toys have no effect. He wants to scream. And I feel like joining in.
"Leave him alone!" I'd shout. "Let him cry, it's the least you can do!"
Instead I just sit. And sit. And sit. What am I even doing here? There's nothing wrong with me. Wasting my precious free time out of work sitting in a moulding chair, listing to Wogan and counting dots on the ceiling.
Hundred and five, hundred and six. Too far away to distinguish them, now, but if I see how many are in one square and multiply that by how many squares there are, I can sleep sound at night knowing exactly how many dots are on this ceiling. My maths teacher would be proud.
Another blip. Not me again. Instead, the tale about the cat making a mess is cut short on its fourth telling and the old biddy waddles through the door. I was here before her. Then again, she probably doesn't have long; I've got the rest of my life to sit here and listen to Wogan and count the dots in the ceiling.
Oh crap, lost count. Got to start over again. Maybe I should ask the receptionist if they've forgotten about me. I'd rather stand up and kick and punch everything in sight, tear the place down like the Incredible Hulk before torching the building, but getting up and walking over to the desk seems the more realistic option.
She seems annoyed that I would ask.
"You'll be seen any second now, Mr..."
I don't even bother helping her out. I just got and sit back down.
Toys are scattered about the floor. A lawsuit waiting to happen. I remember being a kid and playing with toys. Transformers, He-Man, Turtles. There was always a Barbie doll in there too. Of course, it'd always been defaced by just about every lad who’d got his grubby little hands on it; the hair pulled out, the clothes ripped off, the face drawn on with permanent marker. I don’t even recognise the toys here now. Has it been that long?
Another blip. Aha! It's after 9am, about bloody time. They've spelled my name wrong, but I don't care.
The door doesn't open. Is every force under the sun trying to stop me today?
"Hang on, try now..." the receptionist tells me. I give it a kick for good measure, in return she shoots me a look of disgust.
All the waiting is over, now it's time for a clean bill of health and a five minute journey home to try and catch the end of that film I was watching.
"You’re HIV positive."
Hell of a way to start your day. The information, the booklets, the help lines, all of it washes over me. All I can think of is that it’s a hell of a way to start your day.
It's wrong anyway. 8:45 by my watch, and despite the boss claiming otherwise, I know it's right.
Hundred and one, hundred and two, hundred and three... No matter how hard you try, you can't make counting the dots in the ceiling above you interesting.
A blip. We all look up like sheep. It's not my turn. How long has it been? Don't know what time I got here, but it was just before 8 when I left, and it only takes five minutes on the metro. With nothing to do but hate the clock and count dots, 30-45 minutes is a long time. Nothing to read, it's all "Now! The secrets of Charlotte Church!" "Hello! I lost 3 stone in two days!" "New Woman - My father is my brother!" "Utter crap - I want to murder everyone in this room!" Maybe I made that last one up...
Another blip. Not my turn. I was here before they were, in fact they were late to their appointment. I was five minutes early, yet I'm still here, sitting not-so-patiently, counting the dots on the ceiling. I wish they'd turn the heating up, it seems to be getting colder by the minute, and every time someone comes in a gust of wind sends a chill through my body. Someone's left their dog chained up outside. Through the window it looks at me with a blank expression. It'll probably get hypothermia and be seen before me.
The batteries on my MP3 player are dead. All I can hear is the tale of how next door's cat left a mess in the garden being regaled for the third time next to me, and Terry Wogan harking on about nothing in particular on the radio. Oh great, the kid's started crying again. The cooing and the begging and the toys have no effect. He wants to scream. And I feel like joining in.
"Leave him alone!" I'd shout. "Let him cry, it's the least you can do!"
Instead I just sit. And sit. And sit. What am I even doing here? There's nothing wrong with me. Wasting my precious free time out of work sitting in a moulding chair, listing to Wogan and counting dots on the ceiling.
Hundred and five, hundred and six. Too far away to distinguish them, now, but if I see how many are in one square and multiply that by how many squares there are, I can sleep sound at night knowing exactly how many dots are on this ceiling. My maths teacher would be proud.
Another blip. Not me again. Instead, the tale about the cat making a mess is cut short on its fourth telling and the old biddy waddles through the door. I was here before her. Then again, she probably doesn't have long; I've got the rest of my life to sit here and listen to Wogan and count the dots in the ceiling.
Oh crap, lost count. Got to start over again. Maybe I should ask the receptionist if they've forgotten about me. I'd rather stand up and kick and punch everything in sight, tear the place down like the Incredible Hulk before torching the building, but getting up and walking over to the desk seems the more realistic option.
She seems annoyed that I would ask.
"You'll be seen any second now, Mr..."
I don't even bother helping her out. I just got and sit back down.
Toys are scattered about the floor. A lawsuit waiting to happen. I remember being a kid and playing with toys. Transformers, He-Man, Turtles. There was always a Barbie doll in there too. Of course, it'd always been defaced by just about every lad who’d got his grubby little hands on it; the hair pulled out, the clothes ripped off, the face drawn on with permanent marker. I don’t even recognise the toys here now. Has it been that long?
Another blip. Aha! It's after 9am, about bloody time. They've spelled my name wrong, but I don't care.
The door doesn't open. Is every force under the sun trying to stop me today?
"Hang on, try now..." the receptionist tells me. I give it a kick for good measure, in return she shoots me a look of disgust.
All the waiting is over, now it's time for a clean bill of health and a five minute journey home to try and catch the end of that film I was watching.
"You’re HIV positive."
Hell of a way to start your day. The information, the booklets, the help lines, all of it washes over me. All I can think of is that it’s a hell of a way to start your day.