THE WAITING ROOM.

I was thinking about the mortgage repayments when I was obliged to keep my appointment. The queue in the waiting room was long, the weather hot, the seats taken except for some bucket chairs – You know the sort of things – Those uncomfortable plastic affairs that make your back ache after a while. Also there were some beds on which the very frail lay. My head ached, probably as a consequence of the heat. Someone was walking up and down giving out pills but my silent pleas went unheard. I had lost my voice. Then I noticed this cine film, designed I suppose to pacify the crowd. It was certainly not entertaining. To be honest I felt distinctly uncomfortable. My eyes were drawn again and again to the sight even though I made several attempts to look away. Then I heard someone telling me to budge up. When I did so I found that I was sitting next to an emaciated woman whom I judged to be of African origin. Automatically I tried fishing in my pockets for change as I’d done so often – A sop to my conscience and an imagined first step to the solution of her problems. Two birds killed with but a single coin and thousands more by compassion fatigue, apathy and indifference. My hands though remained frozen as the Arctic landscape and simply wouldn’t move. Across the room a Down’s syndrome child was flicking his tongue in and out like an adder. I did manage to avert my gaze this time and was heartily glad I’d passed the euthenasia bill to rid the world of the disabled. It passed its third reading last week and will be law by the spring. We can’t afford sentiment in a world already brimming with people, where parenthood is a privilege already granted to those unfit to have it and life itself given to those too mentally and physically feeble to appreciate it or contribute to it.

Thank goodness! I think I’ve just seen an exit. Damn! It’s one of those imitation picture windows. We’ve just been told we have to wait here till tomorrow. The tea looks disgusting. Stewed liquid in a paper cup. An accurate description of my brain I’d say. This film’s disgusting too and yet I have the distinct impression of having seen it all before. The floor’s disgusting too. It looks as if it’s not been cleaned for months. The air vent looks to be blocked. Cutbacks I suppose. There’s an ill educated yob who’s just come in and has made for a chair near the Down’s syndrome kid. He’s wearing leathers and mumbling expletives. He spat at me as he went by. I bet he’ll pinch the kid’s money or mobile phone, always assuming he has one and knows how to use it. No. He seems to be talking to him, comforting him and telling him we won’t be in here long. Wish I had his confidence. The ads are showing now. Typical! All the things I’ve already got are being shown. This imperious woman is asking me to stay seated lest I miss my turn to go in. I asked her if I could go home and come back tomorrow but she reckons I’d flunk it and stay away and says I should sit quietly, quit making a scene and drink my tea.

Just had a dream about Candy my old dog. That dream was miles better than this film “The Dibden file” it’s called. My name’s Dibden – George Dibden. When the hell are they going to let me in to see him? Why does he overbook like this? It’s grossly irresponsible. Well I never! There’s a bloke not unlike me sitting in a restaurant and refusing to pay because he thought the meat was tough. He’s causing a scene and declaring that the food and service are bad and asking if the waiter knows who he is. Now I see him driving down the motorway like a maniac at much too fast a speed. I remember asking if the waiter knew who I was once so I could get a good table in a restaurant. I didn’t think the food was up to much then either and refused to tip. In fact I walked out without paying at all.

The magazine rack’s empty. On asking why I was told they prove a distraction from the film. It seems arrogant to me to assume everyone should want to watch the film. I’ve just seen Eleanor. Firstly she was in silhouette and then she waved to me quite plainly through the window but that’s impossible! She’s been dead for fifteen years. She looked so carefree now though as she waved while passing the window of this stuffy waiting room. That’s enough now. I’ve become dehydrated and hungry and this room is too hot and that’s making me feel sick and dizzy. I’m off. The scene has changed once more as I move up one more chair towards the door. Some guy has made a quick killing in the city and an insurance scam has come to light as well as a gambling addiction. There was never any proof of my guilt in the scam though. I think I’ll make a quick bid for freedom as they help this drug addicted lame duck through the open door. I bet she’s some immoral little tart. She’s calling out delightedly that she knows me. Says I used to visit her for half price in the old days. I wish she’d keep her bloody voice down. Good job Eleanor didn’t come in after all. I remember her now. I visited her before I got elected, after which time I got the brothel closed down. She’s telling me now that forced her on the streets where she developed her drug habit. I can see row upon row of whisky bottles and cans, every one my brand but no glasses. Also there’s fast cars and all the other trappings of the good life visible to me upon that screen.

I’ve got this constricting pain in my chest. Queue’s moving again. I wish they’d turn that damned thing off. I’m sick of this film. Endless re-runs of foxes being hunted as they run towards their stopped-up earths, fish caught upon cruel hooks only to be thrown back into the sea and chickens kept in cages the size of a TV screen, the depletion of the ozone layer and the endless orgy of greed that the so-called “first world” revels in. There’s wardrobe upon wardrobe of nearly new suits I’ve hardly worn and endless scenes of animals being driven to the brink of extinction to satisfy our arrogant assumption that we’re the only ones whose desires must be gratified and satisfied.

At last! Something wonderful! Me coming out of “Buck House” having been knighted for my stance on land mines, by the king whose mother held the cause so dear to her heart.

“Come in George. I will see you now for I have seen the film and we must discuss it together”.

With the utterance of my name, I died at 11.30 a.m. G.M.T. My time in the waiting room is over. My audience with God about to begin. Now the man, also in silhouette like Eleanor was, is now plain for me to see and I see that I’ve been looking at myself. I await his judgement anxiously as the Down’s syndrome child is still happily laughing at all the cartoons I never got to see. Still flicking his tongue in and out like an adder, he will live for ever in the heaven created for him and borne of his own innocence just as he first had to live in the hell that I and others created for him before extinguishing his like for good. Oh how I wish that with him I could change places but I see that it is far too late for that.