I am 9th in the line snaking along the driveway and the early morning chill means we all hunker into our jackets. I presume most of us ‘early birds’ are ‘fasters’, coffee is the priority on most of our minds. It certainly is for me!
The front door opens, we file in, grab a number from the desk dispenser and settle into the waiting room. This morning’s phlebotomist ignores us, walking outside dutifully to collect the wheelie bins. She returns, still ignoring the crowd as she opens all the blinds. Twelve sets of eyes surreptitiously watch her routine. Those collective eyes swivel instinctively as the pre-programmed overhead distraction bubbles into life. Without looking, I identify Karl’s distinctive laugh, reciprocated by a bubbly young cohost. “Number 1” is called.
The routine is routine, six-monthly ‘bloods to ensure I get up in the mornings! But today, things are different. She briefly does what needs to be done with #1’s blood extraction phial, but before calling for #2, she is amongst us, checking our pathology forms. “OK; yep.” ”OK.” “Yep” “Er; hang on, have you got a urine sample?” “No” “OK, I’ll get you a container. The toilet is just through there.” She points and continues her rounds of the room. “Number 2.”
We all dutifully wait, one chair vacated for toileting duties. The TV tells us that Spiro Stavris has been cleared of assault charges arising from Saturday’s game; Jenny Jones is sharing a fantastic new recipe for breakfast pancakes; Trump is suggesting a denuclearization of Iran after he has orchestrated a regime change, and Hector the Bull Mastiff has won the prestigious Warracknabeal Dog Show. We get a rundown on a challenging new game show starting next week. All riveting stuff.
The hollow, light-hearted banter is seductive. I gird my defences and take satisfaction from resisting the temptation to cast my eyes screenward.
I scan my fellow patrons. Two are intent on their phones, fingers flicking up, down and across in furious expectation of enlightenment. Four others are closely following the TV. I continue to studiously avoid the screen, belatedly noting a stain on the knees of my trousers – pruning yesterday. I’ll need to buy some Preen.
“Number 9” and I’m on my feet approaching the desk; Medicare card and form at the ready. “Please state your full name, date of birth and address. I pass muster as a legitimate, grounded soul and am instructed to make my way along the corridor to the middle room. She follows and closes the door. “Can you tell me your full name, date of birth and address.” I repeat my cardinal credentials. “Any arm preference?” “Right is good.” “You’ve got great veins.” I quip: “yep, a great intravenous user, in my day.” I note eyebrows rise and I settle as three little containers are filled perfunctorily. “Can you confirm your full name, date of birth and address?”
Fearing an irreversible loss of self, homestead and actual existence, I coffee’d at the next door café.