The Doctor’s Waiting Room

It’s a nightmare.

I don’t need a pair of specially designed glasses to see the air is full of victim-seeking microbes courtesy of the man who blasted them out of his nostrils.

Did the germ ridden creature really not have enough warning that a sneeze was imminent to even get his hands close to covering his face?

I push back in my chair trying to put as much room as possible between me and the invisible cloud seeking to do me harm.

From somewhere behind me I can hear a woman wheezing and coughing as if on the brink of pegging out. I don’t turn around to see if she’s covering her mouth in case there’s another germ cloud heading my way from that direction.

The place is a minefield full of diseases. All around are the walking wounded – coughing, spluttering, sneezing… spraying infection everywhere.

Contagion. I’m in a horror scenario.

At some point I’m going to have to leave my relatively safe position – I’ve picked a spot where there is nobody sitting immediately to either side, in front or behind. It might be a futile attempt to protect myself against airborne attackers but you’ve got to try, right?

I recognise a sniffy man I’d seen in the gents earlier. He seems intent on touching everything he passes. It makes me feel a bit queasy. He hadn’t washed his hands after completing his business in the toilet cubicle. What is it about old Brit guys that they have an aversion to personal hygiene?

A friend and myself once observed a stream of blokes using a toilet in a bar. That sounds a bit dodgy, but we were actually watching a football match on TV and the entrance to the toilet was in our direct line of vision… as was the sink outside the toilet door. Only one in 10 (we counted 20 in all) washed their hands. The two who did were aged somewhere between 30 and 40. The rest looked in their 70s. The conclusion of our survey was the older a man, the less he was concerned with personal hygiene.

They are disease-spreading machines to be avoided.

My stomach rumbles loudly reminding of the reason why I’m there. It is time to make my move, to enter the heart of the germ infected arena.

I’m ravenously hungry. It is  time to eat and the spread of food laid out on the long tables is in danger of being removed whilst I dither.

Buffets in holiday resort hotel dining rooms. Don’t you just hate them in peak flu season?

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