St. Nikola it dawns. Yes, the 19th. The Saint of travelers and something else. Sveti Nikola Putnik look over you from Bab for even short little outings. In the Balkans, down in Boka, it remains well short of dawn. Those holding the feast have been preparing weeks ahead. Comfortable enough in the aircon and front seat with leg room. God knows whether Doc’s arrived and the show rolling. Hour and half wait best guess for No. 5 on the appointment list, pre-booked the day previous. Overnight bad bad itch in another blister sprouting down nearer the heel, scratching resisted somehow for the 1 ½ hour torment. (The literature suggests it spreads the infection.) Five hours and another late added overnight. Dozen plus in the seats listening to the comedy skit with the receptionist over the “Marital Status.” You not married? You not married? You not married? through the circle in her perspex. Third confirmation TIDAH in a snorted laugh spread merriment through the audience. Refrained from questioning her interest; the incredulity was clear. Newspaper trash here as always, under 10 mins. Quite enough for it today. The Skin sign out front not obsolete: here was a young schoolboy with his mother adjacent wearing some kind of facial rash that the former wants Boy to display for Uncle. There had been verification of the date on one of the Serbian sites a few days before. Jolly glad the visuals demonstrate to all and sundry in the room that the mat salleh isn’t here because he has been screwing the locals, the lasses down along the road for example. Noooo Siree! Weeks now the Klinik had been passed without the signage transmitting. It looked a sorry nook indeed; now you were yourself in need. Couple days prior at the first reconnoiter the added VD specialization in the practice was observed on the door. Ah! Well sited here. One could have played the guessing game in the room, but not from the front row. Guy come up with his young wife, possibly a No. 2. Not likely he was going to allow any kind of examination behind these partition walls without his presence. Thankfully the TV off, out of order perhaps. Large display of acne cases with black strips covering the eyes of the pitiful victims. How long could the leg be kept crossed like this?... In fact only a dozen in the ranks behind. 14 suddenly flashing along with the buzzer. Hey! What about us?... Aduh! Precisely as anticipated. Shortly thereafter orderly sequence again, a semblance of order returned. That’s better. Three quarts of an hour later No. 1 had been seen and sent on her way. Doc rocked up late no hurry to enter his surgery, you couldn’t blame him. Well, what kind of scene awaited? Will the fellow be smoking at his desk like old Dr. Clarke in the old days? Calendar on the wall, collar beneath dustcoat. Patients would not buy without the white coat. A tie? Perhaps for an Indian rising above the blood, the sweat and the fetid infections. Not a little unpleasant either having to sing out to the girl earlier the age too; holding the passport in her hand there could be no fudging. That was a first, sounding out that damnable diseased number, owning it. Preposterous. She was honour bound to ask of course, no room for complaint. Grrrh. RM100-120 best guess, all worth it if pristine condition returned and pain relief two days later. Antibiots and cream for the pustules and blisters. Out, out damn spots!
No comments:
Post a Comment