Doctors’ receptionists. Weird, vile creatures if you ask me.
I’ve had a number of run ins with women over the years. Receptionists and PAs (don’t get me started on these); they’re never men, always women. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike women, however, a lot of the time they just do my head in. This particular strand of women do my head in, as they display their god like complex with such eagerness and vigour, that I could easily (and without guilt or remorse) kick them full on in their ovaries.
Less than a week after having Harry, I had to collect a prescription (I won’t share the details, because quite honestly, you’d puke). Massive queue in the waiting room and I’m stood there with swollen ankles, protruding baby belly and a tiny baby in his baby seat being coo’d over by everyone in the queue. So you can imagine my complete horror and utter disdain for the new receptionist, who was shouting down the queue enquiring with a military like attitude, as to why each of us were there.
“Young lady, are you here for the pill?” she yelled, not so discreetly. In that single moment, I could’ve have punched her in the face.
“No, I’m here for a brand new fridge freezer” I desperately wanted to shout back, fuming. The pill??? Is she for god damn real I felt like yelling. The pill?? Here I am, with my ankles and my belly and new born baby and she’s asking if I’m here for my pill??? Do I look like I’m wanting to have wild sex and swing from the chandeliers love? Besides the sheer assumption that I was there not to fall pregnant (again), I couldn’t get my head round the fact she’d decided it was completely appropriate to share this with a room full of strangers.
“No I’m here for some Lactulose and Dioralyte” I shouted right back, with no hesitation, much to the embarrassment of everyone around me and her complete surprise. There you go, you silly cow I thought, right back at you. That’ll teach you to yell across a packed waiting room. Clearly your Mother didn’t teach you any manners and neither did the NHS finishing school (sorry NHS, I’m not directly giving you the V’s).
Fast forward a year.
Over the last few weeks, Harry’s been under the weather (poorly for you non Northerners) and so at 4pm, I called the Doctor to see if I could book an appointment – long shot I know. Unless you’re unemployed, retired or on Maternity, there’s not a hope of securing one of these and if you do, you feel like you’ve won the lottery, how pathetic really.
“You do know you can book appointments on the day” she replied to my request, laden with irritation and annoyance. “Yes I appreciate that, but he’s become progressively worse as the day has gone on” I replied, biting my tongue to the point I was almost choking myself and cutting off my own blood supply. “Well had you called earlier in the day I could’ve got you an appointment” came her reply. Really, really love, could you have? I don’t think so, was on the tip of my facetious tongue. You’d have told me that you had no appointments and no, I couldn’t book ahead, and to call back tomorrow, on the day. Then I’d have said he’s a baby and you’d have magically found me one – amazing that isn’t it? I’d gone from calm to losing it in the skip of a heartbeat. It’s like when you were at school, and 10 minutes into your lesson, you discovered you needed to pee. “Miss I need the loo, may I be excused?” “Miss Dutchak, why didn’t you go at break time?” I was always tempted to yell “Because I didn’t need it then did I, or I’d have gone“. Same principle. Had Harry required an appointment earlier in the day, or had I had my crystal ball on hand to foresee he was going to become even more poorly, I’d have picked the damn phone up and booked an appointment. I’m nearly 34, yet I can be mistaken for younger and this why I think sometimes, people behave in an obnoxius, prick like manner. Well you’ve picked the wrong mofo to take the moral high ground with.
Last time I’m polite and well mannered to mankind. We’re done with.
“Bring him in at 5.25pm” she eventually conceded. It was 4.50pm and I was the other side of town. With the shitty traffic (nearly every road in Doncaster is currently being dug up), there was a slight chance I’d be 5 minutes late. “I’m driving from Arksey, so I’ll endeavour to be there for 5.25pm, however, I may be a few minutes late, just to let you know.” “Well that changes everything, why didn’t you say you weren’t at home?” came the ice queen’s reply. What the f*ck? I need to tell you I’m not at home? Shall I tell you what I had for lunch and what’s on my Christmas 2016 list whilst I’m at it, I thought. You hormonal PMT laden irritant.
Much to my delight, I made it to the appointment in good time. Said receptionist doesn’t appear to sit on the front desk, or I’d have been severely tempted to tell her to mind her attitude, if she doesn’t mind.
My words of advice to Doctors’ Receptionists, I’m watching you. So take your god like complex, and your phone and ram it where the sun doesn’t care to shine.
And high five to those few normal ones too, I know you’re out there and you’re a credit to the NHS. Afterall, I’m not a complete hater.