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Lorraine Mace |
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When Your Number’s Up |
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On seeing people milling about in groups, it would be easy to believe Spanish people don’t form queues, but they always know whose turn it is to go next. It was a while before we discovered that new arrivals weren’t calling out a greeting, but asking who was last. Whoever nodded, shrugged, or gave any other kind of twitch, was the one to watch, because the newcomer’s turn was after theirs. Being typical ex-pats, we found this daunting. It was bad enough having to ask who was last, but far worse was the fear of missing our turn to twitch. The thought of dealing with an irate Spaniard who’d missed his turn because of us was terrifying. In fact, I’m sure we now twitch in a more flamboyant way than is required, but we don’t take any chances. Twitching mode at the ready, we were delighted to discover at the local hospital that it wasn’t required. There, for blood tests, scans and other procedures, everyone is given a number. Derek was given paperwork for various tests. The first, to have blood taken, had him down as number 61. When we reached the hall there seemed to be literally hundreds of people waiting. Many were obviously old friends and the noise level was deafening as greetings were exchanged, jokes told and tales of woe lamented over. We were so relieved it wasn’t necessary to shout over the din to find out who was last. We edged as close to the door as possible in order to hear which number the nurse called, but couldn’t make it out. Every time she seemed to be saying the same number. After a few repetitions the penny dropped: she was shouting next. Our hearts sank as we realised we needed to search out number 60 to follow. We decided to split up, each of us sidling up to people and trying to sneak a peek at the number on their paperwork. Some of them had selfishly put their papers away in handbags or pockets. Others were holding them in such a way as to obscure the all-important information. When we met back at the doorway, we were no nearer to finding number 60. Our worst fears were realised – we’d have to start asking people what their number was. I approached the nearest person, an old lady in a wheelchair who, it transpired, had hearing difficulties. I don’t know if it was my accent, or my fierce determination, but she looked absolutely terrified. I turned to he group closest to her and approached them with what I prayed was a welcoming smile. No joy there, or with anyone else I asked. Derek reported a similar lack of success, but he had at least found number 58, which meant we only needed to count two more people after her. Eventually number 58’s turn came. We rushed over to the door, watching for the next two patients to go in. Number 59 was one of those who’d had their papers tucked away, but number 60 was the deaf old lady, now accompanied by a ferocious looking attendant. From the glare I received as they passed, I gathered that she’d regaled her chair pusher with a tale of my attack. I looked at the floor and prayed, but it stubbornly refused to open. Finally we entered the room, Derek’s blood was drawn and annotated and we were sent on our way to the next appointment. Derek sorted through his sheaf of papers to see what number he had for the next test. Number 174. When your number’s up … © Lorraine Mace 2005
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