I’m hospital waiting room in situ as the starter’s pistol signals commencement of my second blog of the day. At least I think it was a starter’s gun, not the sound of a drive-by shooting on Beckett Street!

Sitting in the Imaging department waiting area, the comforting heat of an adjacent radiator warms my chilled bones. My skeletal frostiness courtesy of the unforgiving north Leeds wind during my stroll from the car park.

As I write, my wife Karen has disappeared into one of the CT scanning theatres. Meanwhile, I sit in solitude with laptop open, my aspirations the manifestation of creative thoughts with it’s subsequent catharsis.

Being the only person in the area, I keep convincing myself the solitude isn’t anything personal. Admonishing myself for allowing a nagging paranoia that the paucity of patients is somehow linked to my presence in this historic medical establishment. A nonsensical thought on many levels.

As is my theory the noise I earlier took to be a starting pistol was an enemy taking a pot shot at me. My avoidance of gunshot wound(s) only courtesy of a ricochet from my laptop lid. Seeking confirmation of misguided thoughts, I scan my surroundings checking for collateral damage, re-assuringly finding vending machine, waiting room furnishings or walls appear bereft of bullet holes.

In the distance a receptionist and nurse chat amiably at the desk where Karen earlier registered her arrival. I try eavesdropping in the hope it manifests inspiration for a narrative topic. Sadly, I’m unable to hear anything with clarity, apart from the nurse asking her colleague “So it didn’t work earlier, you say?….. Will he try re-shooting him later?”….. Keen to avoid further incidents of paranoia, I assume she’s referring to the radiographer having issues with X-Ray machinery.

waiting room

In scores of visits to medical establishments since Karen’s diagnosis eight years ago, I don’t ever recall a waiting room being empty. Granted it’s late, even so I didn’t expect to be greeted to views similar to the stands during England’s recent behind closed doors match in Croatia

Karen shouldn’t be too long today. CT scans are a shorter procedure than the MRI scans she so hates. Finding the MRI scan claustrophobic and noisy, she requests the piping of music into the chamber, distracting her throughout the procedure. That being said, during her last scan repeat listening to Cliff Richard’s ‘Wired For Sound’ didn’t have the desired calming affect.

Incidentally, I’m no longer the only visitor in the Imaging department waiting room. Within the last few seconds a youngish guy and his mother have taken residence on two brightly coloured chairs opposite. At least I’m assuming it’s his mum – Not a partner, aunt, godmother, Pauline from Accounts or a fellow member of the Eric Sykes Appreciation Society.

While I transcribe my thoughts, they converse in whispers. Hushed tones undertaken either from not wanting to distract my concentration, or from not wanting me to hear them exchange comments like “Yes, that’s the paranoid idiot who writes of being targeted by gunmen….. God, where did he get that shirt? It’s bl***y awful!”

Anyhow, I’m going to bring this chronicling of waiting room ‘excitement’ to a conclusion as, post scan, Karen has rejoined me. On her return she seems particularly disturbed at what she deems as bullet ricochet marks on my laptop.

I’m unsure what she’s referring to, however my spouse has mystifyingly just muttered “One job!…. They had one bl***y job!!”