Doctor: Heal Thyself

I sat to the side of the Doctor’s desk. His professional half-smile encouraged me to try and explain what was going on.

I couldn’t look at him properly and I slumped forward a little, eyes studying the NHS-cleaned, ancient floor tiles. It took all the effort I had to delve as deep into the cavern as I could. Eventually, by screwing my face up, I found a tiny voice from miles away. Dislocated and weird, I managed to say:

“It seems silly to say so… but I’m just not doing well.”

I heard the swish of his chinos against his leather seat.

“It’s not silly,” he said. “In what way?”

“I guess I’m just not enjoying anything. It all seems so… empty.”

A bird chirped somewhere in the background and was quickly drowned out by an articulated lorry’s hefty roar of urgent capitalism. I dared a glance up. The doctor was sitting, body language open, professionally-distant but human empathy-close to me.

I sighed. This was hopeless. I’ve come here and wasted this man’s time. For what? Feeling a bit down? What kind of loser even does that? People with real illnesses find it hard enough to get an apppointment here. What the hell made me think I was so special? So important that my boredom or whatever was more important than the kid in the waiting room bravely holding back tears, with a gnarly-looking gash on his arm, and his mum in bits trying to stay stolid for her special guy?

No, this was a mistake. I began mentally-rehearsing the stages needed for me to stand up and walk out.

The Doctor suddenly grinned and pointed to an area just above his head. We both looked up; there was nothing there but an idea.

“Sometimes,” he began leisurely, then sped up as he warmed to the topic, “Sometimes when I’m down in the dumps I check the entertainment listings.”

His fingers danced on the keyboard and, triumphantly, he turned the screen to me: “And look,” (I did), “Circus Italiana is in town – and the great clown Pagiluci is star attraction.”

My heart sank:

“But doctor,” I eventually replied, not wanting to take away the childlike glee in the pools of blue behind his bicycle-wheel glasses. “He’s a fucking cunt.”