The car park was full, but not a person was to be seen.
I entered the building — a building so completely bereft of soul it might be better described as a warehouse — and visited the cheerless individual at ‘Customer Services’.
“Hi, I’m looking for the Genetic Clinic,” I said with a smile. “Upstairs. Outpatients,” they replied. Without a smile.
I found ‘Outpatients’.
An elderly woman in a wheelchair and her companion were the only visitors in the unfeasibly large waiting room.
Remnants of Covid-19 notices and scribbled whiteboard messages surrounded me. It has often puzzled me how, in medical facilities, information is displayed on a multitude of laminated A4 pages pinned to walls, windows and, in fact, any available upright surface.
So numerous that no one could ever possibly consume all the information.
This waiting room was no different — other than its lack of soul and its expansiveness. I approached the reception desk.
“There’s no-one ’ere. Just take a seat and ’spect someone will be with you,” said the companion. I nodded and took my place in the aircraft hangar.
I was soon alone. Waiting.
People were leaving. So many people were coming ‘out’ that this is clearly why it’s called ‘Outpatients’.
Not many going in, though. Other than Elderly Woman and Companion.
My appointment time has now passed. Whilst this is never a surprise, I begin to wonder whether I’m actually in the right place. Maybe Cheerless sent me here for their own twisted amusement.
More arrivals now. A family. The daughter is talking relentlessly. How does she manage to breathe? Maybe she’s learnt to speak whilst inhaling as well as exhaling.
“There isn’t anyone at the reception desk apparently, so maybe just take a seat?” I suggest. The family nod and seat themselves.
Elderly Woman and Companion have now joined the many ‘Out’ patients. They leave quietly.
I certainly hope my appointment is more meaningful than theirs can have been in approximately eight minutes.