I am a creature of habit. Things need to be just so. I do not like change. I sleep on the same side if the bed, I prefer a side of the bus and I always sit to the lefthand side of NFT1 at the BFI. I like things the way they are, and that is that. My treatment on the Second Floor is no exception to this. I have a side of the room, I have rituals that I adhere to, and when that changes, well, I do not manage it very well. I think I can evidence this….
I am sulking. Big time. For the Second Floor has failed to meet my usual, completely realistic, expectations.
First of all, I was greeted by a receptionist who did not know me. What? I hear you say. Not know me? She won’t last long. And none of the nurses are smiling, even when I red lipstick smile at them.
As the lift doors opened, I looked forward and saw that the clinic is rammed. Utterly full of sick people and their healthy buddies. My heart sank. There are people everywhere; it’s like there is a sale on and everybody is buying. It gets worse, I sadly discovered on my arrival that there are NO big read comfy seats free. Not only that, there are no free moderately less comfortably grey reclining chairs. To take this trip even further into the rubbish dump, there are no free hard red chairs with a tall back. I am sitting on something that I did not even know was a seat. Essentially, I am sitting on a cushioned park bench in shades of grey and orange. I am in dire straits. Actually, it is not just me, I just witnessed the Medically Trained People wheel a patient into a bay on office chair. Oh my gods, it’s all the fault of immigration to be sure.
Now, I must, begrudgingly give people their dues, I have surveyed the floor and the people preventing me from being comfortable who are occupying the the big red chairs and the grey recliners are patients. The people occupying the premium economy seats, with neck support, are not patients. They are with patients. I do mean to sound like a child when I say that they are selfish numskulls. Sure it’s New Year’s Eve and people are off work, so they have chosen to spend their free time with a loved one who is being injected with poison, but this does not make it acceptable for them to make me feel uncomfortable by them occupying my preferred seats I have back issues. Nor is it acceptable for them to watch me struggle with a chair whilst they sit their and sip their coffees, and accumulate rubbish which they seem to be incapable of putting in one of the several bins provided. I just know they have used the patient toilets. They are also making a lot of noise, thus drowning out my iPod, foul excuses of human beings. I’m am sure they are all talking utter tripe that is about as interesting as watching beige paint dry, but that does not mean that they can use up all the tables and make me put my tea on the floor.
Sod sulking, I’m irate. This is my space and this is my time and I am surrounded by badly dressed, ageist imbeciles.
Damn you, sick people. Damn you.