-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
THOUGHT PROCESS AT TIME.
Just walk normally and act natural.
But of course I was looking anything but natural. That was due to ‘the thing’ that was being hidden inside my jacket, under my arm.
It wasn’t securely placed so I had to keep pressing my arm firmly against the left hand side of my torso to hold to steady thus having a debilitating effect on my movement - One side of me normal, the other side stiffly shuffling along like it was auditioning as an extra in a zombie movie.
THOUGHT PROCESS AT TIME
Just get round the corner and you can remove it.
Nearly there, nearly there….
And I was nearly there, just a few yards to go when she suddenly appeared in front of me – She being Mrs De Sousa, the Mauritian lady/busy body from down the road.
(Being Mauritian having no direct influence on her busy body nature, before I am accused of something objectionable)
“Hello,” She greeted, as if surprised to see me.
Don’t know why?
As a writer, I work from home; a concept that she’s never quite grasped.
She seems to think this means I’m unemployed and therefore when ever she sees me the first thing she says is ‘there are jobs going in tescos,’ whilst staring at me thoroughly unimpressed
“Hao” I slurred.
Mrs De Souza’s expression went from thoroughly unimpressed to disdain.
“I’b jus cumb frob ver dentissssss,” I quickly added on. I was aiming for ‘I’ve just come from the dentist’ but that was the best my speech pattern could manage.
I thought it best to explain given my incoherent gabbling and my dodgy walk, adding her opinion of me being an unemployed scrounger; it was obvious she was thinking I was now a wandering drunkard.
“Ohhhhhhhhhh,” She nodded cautiously. “Who do you see? Mr Wong doesn’t work on a Wednesday…”
“Mussis Acter”
“Mrs Akhtar?” She repeated, with correct pronunciation whilst sounding surprised.
And I already knew why! Yes, we then did the whole ‘Isn’t she the kiddie’s dentist’ routine.
Mrs De Sousa kept talking to me, not that I was listening, I was focusing on ‘the thing’ in my jacket, which I was failing to keep hold of.
Even as I pressed my arm tighter and tighter against my body, I still struggled to keep a good grip. I could feel myself losing it…And then it slipped.
There, lying on the pavement for all to see. My shameful secret.
MY OPENING STATEMENT AT KLEPTOMANIAC'S ANONYMOUS.
Hi, I’m Jo Jo and I steal old ‘Hello’ magazines from medical waiting rooms.
But in my defence.
I’d entered the dentist that morning at 10.20am, ready to be seen at 10.25am. But they were running late…There it was, a seven page spread on Jennifer Aniston, and her emotional recovery post Brad Pitt.
Yes, I know that’s no excuse.
Yes, I know it happened over five years ago.
Yes, I know this must be the 100,978 millionth article on Jennifer Aniston where she ‘finally breaks her silence’
Yes, I know since then Brad’s settled down and had kids with the ‘other woman’
Yes, I know it’s a case of ‘what more is there left to be said’.
Yes, I know, how many more times can this one person ‘finally break her silence’
Yes, I know every journalist is trying to do a ‘Helen Fielding’ and get a novel published, in the hope Richard Curtis will turn it into a film; so yes, you’d think there be more creativity and originality.
Yes, I know it’s not too much to ask for one of the journalist, in this vast nation of ours, to come up with a new and exciting angle for a Jennifer Aniston article…
But hey, it sells! We women buy it by the bucket load. (Or thieve it…)
Granted not for the repetitive ‘life since Brad Pitt’ stuff.
We readers are equally as bored and think the journalists need to get over it by, either, cold turkey or therapy.
We readers just like to have a good gawp at her outfits, if the truth be known
So, by the time the dental nurse called me in, I was only on the third page.
I was in the middle of looking at the pictures of what she was wearing as she casually hung out in her open plan kitchen, organising a light supper for Courtney Cox and David Arquette, who were coming over later that evening.
I was yet to see what Jen would actually wear once light supper had commenced – not to mention how she’d style her hair.
I came back out of the treatment room and was stood in reception wanting to make payment and there it was, on the table, taunting me with the remaining four pages.
I wanted to take the magazine home, get a hot cup of tea and few chocolate hob nobs, put my feet up and leisurely read it whilst Phil and Fern were on in the back ground – this is how a magazine should be read.
The receptionist turned her back for split second and before you could say ‘law abiding citizen,’ it was in my jacket.
Due to the speed of the theft, I was unable to place it securely under my arm and it balanced around my lower hip with my wrist and elbow, holding it in place.
Mrs Akhtar was just coming back into the reception area from their staff room. The poor lady was quite taken a back as she watched me dragging, what must have looked like half a dead carcass out the door.
What had I done?
She was probably sat there worried thinking she’d miss-aimed the local anaesthetic, hit an important nerve and had permanently paralysed my entire left hand side.
I could picture her now, crying whilst reading the small print on her medical malpractice liability insurance.
How selfish am I?
I know, being of Hindu persuasion I should have stopped and thought about what effect my actions would have…
But surely these surgeries have to take responsibility somewhere.
They put these magazines out enticing your curiosity, then, they run late, without bothering to give you time frame of how long you have.
So you sit there, not knowing where you stand…
THE PATIENTS THOUGHT PROCESS AT TIME.
Do I start reading?
How long do I have?
Can I actually start the article, will I have the time?
What if I’m half way through something good and I’m called away?
Perhaps I should play it safe and just surface skim, but that’s not much fun?
What if I surface skim, and then still left with lots of time, then I‘m going to kick myself that I didn’t read the original article?
Now if I start reading it, I’ll definitely not have the time!
I think I’m going to cry!
Do I start reading?
How long do I have?
Can I actually start the article, will I have the time?
What if I’m half way through something good and I’m called away?
Perhaps I should play it safe and just surface skim, but that’s not much fun?
What if I surface skim, and then still left with lots of time, then I‘m going to kick myself that I didn’t read the original article?
Now if I start reading it, I’ll definitely not have the time!
I think I’m going to cry!
Every time you sit in a waiting room it’s like they’re playing Russian roulette with your peace of mind.
What next, Chinese water torture?
Hmmm! Must remember to write to local MP with the suggestion that if the NHS is lacking money maybe they can hire their waiting rooms out for interrogation purposes.
Even the cleverest of criminal masterminds would crack with the use of such underhanded mind games.
you're too funny
ReplyDelete