Queueing Action Part 4

To succeed at our Doctors’ it really helped if you had a photographic memory. Your first task on entering was to register everyone in the room so that you knew who was before you and to make sure that no-one who came in after you usurped your place. The whole room sat in that absolute silence common to waiting rooms everywhere, each person desperately trying to maintain their mental picture of the pecking order. Occasional fine tuning would occur when someone with a degree of confidence would make an opening bid, such as:

Large, imposing woman in armchair by fireplace: “I think you were before me, weren’t you dear?”

Young woman wrestling with toddler on her lap: “Oh yes, I came in after the lady in the red hat, didn’t I?”

Lady with red hat: “That’s right, because I came in at the same time as the gentleman with the umbrella over there. I distinctly remember remarking on the rain shower we had just had so that must have been about (tentatively) half past four?”

All: “Yes, half past four. That’s right.”

Conversations like this helped everyone to get the pattern right in their heads and to introduce newcomers to the rules of the game. Unfortunately, the physical layout of the premises enabled the more unscrupulous to buck the system. It was impossible to see the corridor from the waiting room. Therefore, it was entirely possible for the more impatient or thick-skinned to lurk in the corridor, listen out for the bell or buzzer and race down the corridor to the consulting room whilst the debate in the waiting room concluded:

“I think that’s me. You’re waiting for Doctor X aren’t you?”

“I don’t mind who I see but I think it’s your turn anyway. I’m after this gentleman.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me, I’m here to see Doctor Y”

Etc., etc.

The receptionist’s purpose was to dig out your medical notes and leave these tightly stuffed brown envelopes on a table in the corridor for you to collect and take in to the Doctor. It seems remarkable, in this age of Data Protection that everyone’s medical records were left there for anyone to access. So, by the time that you had confirmed your turn in the waiting room, proceeded up the corridor and found your medical notes it was by no means unusual to knock on the consulting room door only to find a low drone of conversation coming from the other side that indicated that someone had pinched your spot. Clearly, if you weren’t agitated by attending the doctor before, you certainly would be after a few iterations of this scenario.

Strangely enough, the only time I have seen queuing discipline break down into violence was at the most unlikely venue imaginable. Over the years I have been to rock concerts up and down the country, from the Hammersmith Odeon to the back room of the local pub. At these I have rubbed shoulders (and very little else – you never know where it might lead) with every sector of society and have never seen any trouble. However, at a Ken Dodd concert in Derby Assembly Rooms a few years ago, one gentleman (who wouldn’t see 70 again if he used a telescope), accused another of a similar age of pushing in front of him at the bar and all hell broke loose. It took three bouncers to pull them apart.

So beware the awesome power of the queue, you never know when and where it might strike next. I’m sorry, were you before me?

You can find Parts One, Two and Three by following the respective links.

This story is from 'Steady Past Your Granny's', you can find all Philip's 'nostalgedy' stories here

Queueing Action Part 3

You could probably replicate this scene in any chip shop in the country, even today. Standing in these queues was never a wonderful pastime but was marginally more interesting in Comley’s (which was the family name, if memory serves me correctly, which is rare) in Uxbridge Street. This was the last chip shop that I can remember that still had coal-fired ranges. Mr. Comley was responsible for stoking the fires and cooking the produce, Mrs. Comley served and maintained a constant flow of conversation with each customer based on her encyclopaedic knowledge of everyone and everything in the vicinity. I remember that the conversation was always scrupulously polite. I would usually go to Comley’s with my Nanna Whiteland, who had been a regular customer of theirs for years but the conversation would still be on the lines of:

“Oh hello Mrs. Whiteland, how’s your (insert name of offspring here)”

“Very well, Mrs. Comley, I’ll have a cod and sixpennorth please”

I don’t think I ever heard Mr. Comley speak. He would stride in and either hurl coal into one of the ranges or drop a battered fish into the seething fat (never, thankfully, confusing these operations, deep-fried anthracite not being to everyone’s taste), nod to the waiting populace and then disappear into the bowels of the shop.

A similar queuing system could be found in the local butcher’s on Tuesday evenings. Savoury Duck night! The trick here was to be in place at exactly the time when the Savoury Ducks came out of the oven. Then quickly back home with the hot products safely contained in the white earthenware bowl brought specially for this purpose. I didn’t know what goes into Savoury Ducks and I still don’t know what goes into them. More to the point, I don’t want to know what goes into them. I just know that they tasted great then and still do today (although they are much harder to find these days).

For really complex queuing though, it was difficult to beat our local Doctor’s surgery. For many years our Doctor steadfastly refused to entertain the idea of an appointment system, presumably because he found the spectacle of most of his patients having been ground down to frustrated, gibbering wrecks, more entertaining. Our Doctor’s surgery was contained in what must have been a rather grand house in its day. The two front rooms were now consulting rooms which were approached by a long corridor. Patients entered the building through the rear door, reported to the Receptionist who occupied a cubby hole to the left of the door at the end of the corridor and were then instructed to wait in the waiting room directly across the corridor from her cubby hole. The waiting room must have been the kitchen and servants quarters of the house and was now filled with a series of dilapidated armchairs and benches arranged in a circle around the walls. Above the fireplace were two small lights, one connected to a bell and one connected to a buzzer. As one or other of the Doctors concluded their consultation they would press a button which would illuminate their light and sound a bell or buzzer in the waiting room, instructing the next patient to come down.

On entering the waiting room, a sense of deep depression would fill your soul. It didn’t matter what time you attended the surgery, the waiting room was always full. I think the surgery hours were officially 5 – 6 pm but, in reality, the waiting room would be full by 4 pm and the last patient might not be seen until 7pm. As you entered the room, all eyes would fall upon you, not because of your wonderful dramatic presence but simply so that everyone else in the room could register your face and place you in their mental holding pattern.

You can find Parts One, Two  and Four by following the respective links.

This story is from 'Steady Past Your Granny's', you can find all Philip's 'nostalgedy' stories here

It Started With A Snore - Part 1

In a previous post (I Was A Stranger And Ye Took Me In) I mentioned that I had been consigned to a bedroom on my own, on a different floor, by my mates whilst on a 'walking weekend' because of my snoring. I promised then that I would explain more, and here it is. This series of articles first appeared in Mature Times and were intended to be something of a diary of events. Now read on...

I seem to have been seeing quite a bit of the medical profession recently. Or, I suppose more accurately, the medical profession have been seeing quite a bit of me. Now, before you get too concerned (as if) I should say, at this juncture, that I am not, to the best of my knowledge and belief, ill (excuse me whilst I grab a large lump of wood to ward off any gestures of supreme irony by a malevolent Fate). I have, however, been checked to within an inch of my life. Let me explain.

It started with a snore. In fact, it may well end with a snore, but we’ll come to that later. For years my poor wife has endeavoured, with a great deal of fortitude, to sleep with my nocturnal ‘noises off’ bellowing in her ears. I, of course, have slept on soundly, safe in the knowledge (from previous expensive experience) that no amount of strips applied to the nose, herbal gargles or specially contoured pillows make any difference (when I referred to a malevolent Fate earlier, I think that the fact that light sleepers are invariably attracted to those with stentorian snores is a pretty good indicator of the existence of this particular force). Anyway, all this changed as soon as it became apparent that I had started to stop breathing (or stopped starting to breathe…if you see what I mean?) Hurling yourself awake in the wee small hours, seized with the absolute certainty that you’re about to snuff it, tends to put a crimp in your otherwise peaceful slumbers, and this was only on the occasions when I knew that I had stopped breathing. The upshot of all this was a trip to the Doctor’s to see about a consultation with a specialist. This was about two years ago.

Have you tried making an appointment to see your friendly, local GP recently? I only ask because I am now aware that there is a technique to this. Being ill isn’t sufficient to warrant an early appointment. The novice will ring the Surgery hopefully, perhaps mid-morning, with the expectation of getting an appointment in the next 24 hours. No chance! If you’re lucky, you might get the promise of a slot a week on Thursday. If you want to see a Doctor on the same day of telephoning, then you will need to join a determined band who will commence ringing the Surgery at precisely 8.00 a.m. in an effort to grab one of the few, jealously guarded, ‘emergency appointments’ that are held for that day. By 8.10 a.m. these will have been snapped up for the day and everyone else, regardless of condition, will have to join the grim band of telephoners tomorrow. Being at death’s door might help, but is no guarantee of medical attention. Of course, you only get to know all of this if you are a habitué of the Surgery. The occasional putative patient discovers this only by bitter experience and either gets better regardless, or clogs up the Accident & Emergency service of the local hospital.

The reason that you can’t get an appointment for love or money is because the ‘chronically ill’ have got them all sewn up (to coin a phrase) for months on end. Now, please don’t think that I’m belittling the troubles of those who have a chronic illness of any nature, I am not. My beef is with a system that does not make proper allowance for the vast majority of the population who only need to access their Doctor once in a blue moon, and then discover that it would be easier to book a place on the International Space Station. I was amazed to find (when I finally gained access to the Surgery) that it was like a miniature social club, full of little groups who meet on a weekly or monthly basis as they wait for their latest test or check-up. When they finally come out from their appointment, they do so with a prescription the size of the Dead Sea Scrolls, sufficient to bring a tear of joy to Jesse Boot’s eye. In addition, they will have a list of follow-on appointments that will take ages to arrange with the Receptionist and which will keep them happily occupied until next Michaelmas.

You can find all of Philip's stories in his three compilations:  Philip Whiteland's Author Page