blatantly
ignored, he stalks over to the lorry whilst I sink into my seat and cringe.
Tapping on the window, he gruffly requests Mr Oblivious ‘move his hunk of junk,
or else’, sparking a testosterone-fuelled tug-of-war.
Shoulders hunched, fingers
wagging, they’re squabbling like toddlers over a Tonka truck. I knew I
should have taken the bus.
***
Ten minutes of
not-so-pleasantries and a £60 fine for entering a ‘no access’ zone later, we’re
on our way once more, Will simmering darkly, me chewing my nails in grim
anticipation of what’s sure to be a thorny, pistols-at-dawn encounter with ‘Mr
Roses’ at the hand clinic.
As we arrive at City Royal, it
is ‘ding ding, round nine’, and I believe I’ve got my nose just about in front
on points. It’s the middle of afternoon visiting hours, I’m twenty minutes late
for my appointment and there are fifty cars (okay, maybe not quite fifty ),
waiting to pounce on every space.
“You go , I’ll find you
when I’ve parked up,” Will offers, so I grab my bag, zip up my fleece and jog
across the ambulance bay into A&E, where a thunder-faced receptionist
begrudgingly points me in the direction of the hand clinic whilst barking
military commands at her colleagues.
Wishing I’d opted for something
less fluffy, more strappy, I nervously smooth my sporty attire, which I’ve
specially selected to appear casually nonchalant for Will’s benefit. Glancing
over my shoulder, I add a dab of wild cherry lip-gloss, realising my pulse is
racing:
One: Partly because of my wild ride
in with Evil Knievel
Two: Partly because I’m about to
see dishy, flower-sending Dr Foster again
and
Three: Partly because I don’t trust
my seething other half to keep his big, jealous trap shut and be civil
Plonking myself on an uncomfortable
pull-down chair, I settle into a stint of my favourite pastime - people
watching. But alas, there’s no one worth scrutinising, not a sports injury in
sight, so I give up and read the flyers on the notice board instead.
Isn’t it funny how some people have
a suggestive personality and others don’t give a monkeys? I obviously fall into
the former bracket as, minutes later, somewhat enthralled, I’m convinced I’m
displaying symptoms of almost everything mentioned, from piles to
post-40 impotence, when my hypochondria is interrupted by a tall, slim man in a
long white coat, who seems to be searching for someone. I watch as he gives the
waiting room the once-over before shrugging at the receptionist (quite possibly
a German shot-putter on her days off), who, in turn, grunts and points to me
(peeking round the notice board, camouflaged by a rubber plant).
As he nods and makes his way
over, I notice there’s something hip and bouncy about his stride, like he’s
jamming to a beat only he can hear. I stare, transfixed, half expecting him to
lose his balance, assuming that the huge (and I mean huge )
Afro-Caribbean-style bubble on his head must weigh at least ten pounds.
Checking his clipboard, he
smiles a broad white-toothed welcome, introducing himself in a spirited Jamaican
accent.
“Mrs Moss? ’Ello dere, I’m
Doctor Nubila, sorry ta keep ya but ya miss ya slot and I have ta see udder
patients . . .”
Udder patients? Surely that’s a
vet’s job?
I’m gawping, I know I am, but I
just can’t help myself. I’m awestruck. It’s massive . And it’s just,
well, sitting there, like some kind of mega microphone, wildly
out of proportion with his head and the rest of his body. Seriously, I kid you
not - it’s wicked . I think I want one.
Oooh! I’ve just realised what
he reminds me of! One of those well-pruned circular bushes, with the lollipop
tops and the stick-thin trunks - you know, the ones you always see in posh
little planters outside stately homes . . .
“Mrs Moss? Ellooo?”
He’s waving his clipboard under
my nose with a grin.
“Wud ya care ta folla me?”
Oops! Busted.
Snatching up my new Radley
handbag (a
ignored, he stalks over to the lorry whilst I sink into my seat and cringe.
Tapping on the window, he gruffly requests Mr Oblivious ‘move his hunk of junk,
or else’, sparking a testosterone-fuelled tug-of-war.
Shoulders hunched, fingers
wagging, they’re squabbling like toddlers over a Tonka truck. I knew I
should have taken the bus.
***
Ten minutes of
not-so-pleasantries and a £60 fine for entering a ‘no access’ zone later, we’re
on our way once more, Will simmering darkly, me chewing my nails in grim
anticipation of what’s sure to be a thorny, pistols-at-dawn encounter with ‘Mr
Roses’ at the hand clinic.
As we arrive at City Royal, it
is ‘ding ding, round nine’, and I believe I’ve got my nose just about in front
on points. It’s the middle of afternoon visiting hours, I’m twenty minutes late
for my appointment and there are fifty cars (okay, maybe not quite fifty ),
waiting to pounce on every space.
“You go , I’ll find you
when I’ve parked up,” Will offers, so I grab my bag, zip up my fleece and jog
across the ambulance bay into A&E, where a thunder-faced receptionist
begrudgingly points me in the direction of the hand clinic whilst barking
military commands at her colleagues.
Wishing I’d opted for something
less fluffy, more strappy, I nervously smooth my sporty attire, which I’ve
specially selected to appear casually nonchalant for Will’s benefit. Glancing
over my shoulder, I add a dab of wild cherry lip-gloss, realising my pulse is
racing:
One: Partly because of my wild ride
in with Evil Knievel
Two: Partly because I’m about to
see dishy, flower-sending Dr Foster again
and
Three: Partly because I don’t trust
my seething other half to keep his big, jealous trap shut and be civil
Plonking myself on an uncomfortable
pull-down chair, I settle into a stint of my favourite pastime - people
watching. But alas, there’s no one worth scrutinising, not a sports injury in
sight, so I give up and read the flyers on the notice board instead.
Isn’t it funny how some people have
a suggestive personality and others don’t give a monkeys? I obviously fall into
the former bracket as, minutes later, somewhat enthralled, I’m convinced I’m
displaying symptoms of almost everything mentioned, from piles to
post-40 impotence, when my hypochondria is interrupted by a tall, slim man in a
long white coat, who seems to be searching for someone. I watch as he gives the
waiting room the once-over before shrugging at the receptionist (quite possibly
a German shot-putter on her days off), who, in turn, grunts and points to me
(peeking round the notice board, camouflaged by a rubber plant).
As he nods and makes his way
over, I notice there’s something hip and bouncy about his stride, like he’s
jamming to a beat only he can hear. I stare, transfixed, half expecting him to
lose his balance, assuming that the huge (and I mean huge )
Afro-Caribbean-style bubble on his head must weigh at least ten pounds.
Checking his clipboard, he
smiles a broad white-toothed welcome, introducing himself in a spirited Jamaican
accent.
“Mrs Moss? ’Ello dere, I’m
Doctor Nubila, sorry ta keep ya but ya miss ya slot and I have ta see udder
patients . . .”
Udder patients? Surely that’s a
vet’s job?
I’m gawping, I know I am, but I
just can’t help myself. I’m awestruck. It’s massive . And it’s just,
well, sitting there, like some kind of mega microphone, wildly
out of proportion with his head and the rest of his body. Seriously, I kid you
not - it’s wicked . I think I want one.
Oooh! I’ve just realised what
he reminds me of! One of those well-pruned circular bushes, with the lollipop
tops and the stick-thin trunks - you know, the ones you always see in posh
little planters outside stately homes . . .
“Mrs Moss? Ellooo?”
He’s waving his clipboard under
my nose with a grin.
“Wud ya care ta folla me?”
Oops! Busted.
Snatching up my new Radley
handbag (a
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