Anecdote

The vast woman with the electric pink shirt and angry blonde hair dwarfs the computer terminal in front of her.
"So who is she?" she growls.
The smaller woman at her shoulder peers close to the screen, she is thin and gangly with long, lank hair which gravity does no favours for at all. They remind me of the curious relationship between the giant hippopotamuses and the tiny cleaner birds that you see in nature documentaries.
"That's Mrs Macmillan." she says, "She had to go home."
"But I saw her in the waiting room."
"No, that's Mrs Cullen. What are you doing?"
"Well she didn't check in, she just walked in there."
"Don't delete her!"
"She's got to be checked in properly: Mrs Cullen!"
"Oh for heaven's sake."
The small woman pushes the large woman out of the way, she rolls across the carpet a surprising distance on the wheels of her office chair.I hunch down over the paperwork they have given me to fill in, hoping not to be seen. I'm only in here to check up about my still-sore feet, I feel like I've walked into a small war to ask about something trivial.
"See look," says the smaller woman, "Now she's checked in, I've got her to see Dr Harrison."
"Mrs Macmillan's doctor?"
"Yes."
"So if I delete her..."
The large woman comes at the computer, scooting across the floor on her chair, hands outstretched, huge pink fingernails already typing.
"No!" in a well practiced manuoever, the smaller woman stamps her foot in the path of the chair wheels, so that it grinds to a halt before it can reach the computer.
"Yeek!" says the large woman attempting to stretch the remaining distance.
At this point, Mrs Cullen ambles in, late-seventies, her trousers pulled up to her armpits. She smiles a sweet-old-lady-smile.
"Yes?" she says in a quavering voice.
The two women behind reception look at her blankly.
"Go sit down, love." says the large one, and Mrs Cullen obediently turns and ambles back out again.
The small woman snaps the monitor round to face her, businesslike.
"So who's next, then?" she asks.
"Vincent!" says the large woman triumphantly.
All eyes turn to me. I raise a hand in acknowledgement.
"Here." I say, also in a quavering voice.
"Have you finished with that form?" asks the big woman.
"I think so," I start, "There's some things I couldn't fill in..."
"Give it here." She snatches it away from me across the desk.
"Is everything okay?" I ask. There are boxes I have left empty, details of ailment, hereditary disorders...
"Yes, yes." says the big woman without looking at the form, "Go sit in the waiting room."
She gestures with one of her huge pink fingernails to the door and turns her attention back to the computer, shaking her head.
"I'm going to have a nervous breakdown," she says matter of factly.
In the waiting room, a small square space where everything from the carpet to the chairs to the potted palm are all the same shade of green, Mrs Cullen sits reading a magazine promising the "Top 20 Sex Tips for a Healthier Relationship".
Down the corridor, the sound of an industrial drill starts up, screaming into masonary. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and wait.