The Waiting Room and the Supermarket Trolley

I met this bloke at the doctor’s. He was old, much older than me. Normally, I would have avoided a conversation (I like to catch up on celebrity gossip in these situations) but the waiting room was full. And all of us intent on catching up with celebrity lives. So. I’m sitting there next to this pensioner. He’s having a conversation with the person sitting next to him. On the other side. The pensioner is a wee bit deaf. He talks loud. He has all sorts of health issues, all consuming problems he’d like to get this person’s opinion on. Dry feet. Bunions. Other unsightly foot growths. See? He wiggles his toes. He’s wearing thongs so we have a good view. The foot looks like a root of a very, very old and subtropical tree. It’s gnarly. There’s all sorts of biological matter sprouting from it. Oozing too. I’m fascinated. The person sitting on the other side of the old man is too. We’re leaning forward to get a better look. Then suddenly, the person opposite the person sitting next to the old man is called. It’s her turn to see the doctor. She puts down the magazine (house paint and garden furniture with some recipes thrown in), goes. I spring to action, the person on the other side of the old man springs as well. Ah, but I’m just that bit farther away. I don’t get there in time. I would so have liked to know how to distress furniture. My kitchen table could do with a makeover. 

So, it’s just me and the old bloke. He wants to compare hemorrhoids. I picture it in my mind. How would one do that in polite society? I find myself wondering. I’m actually giving this some thought; I’m pondering the mechanics of it. — Eventually I steel my mind in another direction. Well, I’m trying to but the pensioner won’t let me. He’s moved onto legal matters. He’s engaged in a bit of a to and fro with the local supermarket. It’s the trolleys, you see, the man lowers his voice into what he imagines is a conspiratorial whisper. He’s blowing into my ear. It feels as if we’ve entered a time warp; I’m imagining I’m under a bridge with a tornado passing overhead. It gets weirder. He has trouble putting the coins in. The trolleys. He can’t see the slots, his hands shake too much. He gets frustrated, his blood pressure rises. So he’s been writing letters, putting them in the boxes. Cause customer feedback is important to them (the supermarket people, not the boxes). He’s awaiting their answer. Presently.

Presently it's my turn. The doctor will see me NOW. Good bye, I say to my companion. Good luck with the ... 

The door closes behind me.