Outpatients

A brightly lit corridor with a gleaming vinyl floor, a series of mid-brown wooden doors leading off it. Names are called - the first incomprehensible, the second Mr Sparks. No-one moves. Neither of them appears to be here. The nurse retracts her head from the door round which she had poked it in order to summon the disappearing patients. Your waiting time to see a doctor is declares the dot matrix board encouragingly. We've already heard Mr Foo is running late, and seen him shamble into his consulting room with a cup of coffee perhaps 10 minutes ago. A child of about 7 comes in with his mother, sits in the corner with his woolly gloves on and starts to rummage through the big crate of toys. He finds a large-scale plastic construction toy in primary colours. The pieces, crudely shaped like animals - chickens, doggies, horses - slot together. It makes no sense. The carpet is green, flecked with a darker colour. The waiting room (area 1) is now full, and a woman stands to accommodate the newest arrivals. A nurse tells her there's another seating area nearby. She declines, says she's waiting for someone - I don't think he'll be long. We've already been waiting half an hour. The anxiety in the air is like distant smoke - you can smell it, taste it, it begins to affect your breathing. A woman with a pony tail and gold hoop earrings emerges onto the corridor with a huge pile of buff coloured files. I assume she's a doctor, as she's not wearing a uniform, and therefore stands out amongst the other hospital staff in their various coloured NHS outfits. The elderly couple opposite me look as if they'd been here for hours, days. They seem resigned, except her foot swings like a pendulum in the air, legs crossed. His crossed leg is still but his fingers tap on the chair arms. Both of their faces are tired and lined, a little bemused. He closes his eyes. Suddenly her name is called, and he is left alone.