We are back at A&E for Pixie’s “clinic” appointment.
The receptionist consults her computer screen.
“Are you sure?” she asks, as if dropping into the A&E department on an adhoc basis is something people do as an enjoyable pass time.
“Yes, I’m sure. The doctor told us to come back this morning and she wrote it on the notes for receptionist” I resist adding that I had doubted Sunday night’s receptionist’s ability at the time.
The receptionist can find no trace of Pixie’s appointment but rather than admit this fact, she fobs us off with an order to sit in the waiting area.
Forty minutes later and there is no progress and our appointment time has come and gone, bringing back memories of last year, when a nurse admitted that hospital procedure involved booking five people into each appointment slot. I find the appointment card in the depths of my bag and return to the reception desk, brandishing it.
“Oh you have got an appointment, then” she says, retrieving Pixie’s notes from the bottom of the pile.
“So just how long will it be?” I ask
“Oh, the doctor will see you in five minutes” she says, without apology.