I fell in love with the waiting room yesterday. The sort of
place that usually makes me squirm and broil with general upset was suddenly a
constant source of fascination. Perhaps my eyes were opened to this because I
wasn’t in need of attention (my girlfriend possibly broke a bone in her hand)
and also I was extremely hungover so all I really wanted was somewhere to sit
and focus on nothing, possibly sleep, all of which was granted to me.
On arriving
in the taxi, we see three women waiting for a lift away. They were dressed in
beautiful and precisely worn headscarves and shawls, of deep and satisfying
colour and pattern. Inside, hospital staff are everywhere and attempting to get
everywhere, in their various coloured scrubs with embroidered meanings on the
back. It occurred to me suddenly that this place is never empty; the staff
don’t close up shop when the last patient of the day leaves at 5pm sharp. The
injured hordes will continually pour in, or stumble in at least (there seemed
to be a lot of foot injuries.)
The police
appeared three times, an event that caught my attention as someone instantly
alerted by sirens and their associated symbols. The first time they were
dropping off a name and description at the reception. The second time, they
brought in Barry, who was not under arrest; it appeared maybe he’d been found
collapsed somewhere and they were helping them in. He looked like he’d had some
form of stroke but it could’ve been something else. He wore a jumper
back-to-front that should’ve had the Dr. Pepper logo on the front, but was
instead of course on his back. Barry could not sit still; despite being told a
number of times to remain in his seat by the patient staff, he would switch
seats, converse with anyone, wander outside, wander down the hallways, and
generally disappear. The third time the police appeared, they had someone in
handcuffs. A short, unshaven man from the North, his arms covered in faded
tattoos. From the conversations I caught between him and the officers, he was
an alcoholic. He was obviously distressed, in his worn out blue t-shirt and
grey jogging bottoms.
There
seemed to be quite a few Irish people working in the hospital and waiting for
help. There was one Scottish man, in some deal of discomfort, with a young
daughter who couldn’t sit still. She developed a slight fascination with the
water cooler, and continually attempted to impress my girlfriend (who couldn’t
care less what with the painful arm) with her acrobatic methods of getting onto
and off of her chair. Inevitably Barry conversed with the child.
