The Doctor's Receptionist

Have you tried to see your doctor recently? Was the receptionist a colossal bastard?
If you phoned the practice, the conversation may well have gone something like this:

“I’d like to make an appointment to see my GP,” you say, calmly.

“Why?” the receptionist barks.

“Because I’m ill!”

“Well obviously you’re fucking ill. You wouldn’t have phoned otherwise. What kind of ill are you?” The receptionist’s temper flares immediately. You can imagine everyone in the room staring at them and waiting to hear what your illness is. You know that if you tell  them they'll repeat what you say for the benefit of their audience. If they haven't already put the phone on speaker anyway.

“I’d rather not say.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

“How can you help me? Are you the actual doctor?”

“Don’t get clever with me. Is it an emergency?”

At this point you will probably pause and wonder. Obviously your illness is an emergency to you, but is it life-threatening? If you googled your symptoms you might think that you’ve got brain cancer and only a matter of hours left to live. Probably a bit of an emergency then.

“Yes.” You don’t sound convincing.

“Are you lying about it being an emergency in the hope that you’ll get a quick appointment?”

“No.” You still don’t sound convincing.

“If it’s not an actual emergency, the doctor will see you when he’s next free which is…” You hear the tapping of a keyboard while they pretend to be looking at the doctor’s schedule. They’re really just updating their Facebook status with “talking to some looser [sic] on the phone, fml”. “The next available appointment is in four and a half years’ time.”

“I can’t wait that long!” you cry.

“So it is an emergency?”

“Yes!” Now you sound convincing.

“Ok, we’ll fit you in right away. Can you be here in thirty seconds?”

“Of course I can’t! I’m not phoning you from the waiting room.”

The receptionist sighs. “Come in an hour. We’ll just cancel an old woman’s appointment. She’s probably much more ill than you, but you think you’re so bloody important don’t you?”

“Thanks, see you then.”

You hang up.

The same receptionist will look at you with contempt when you arrive at the surgery. They may even have crafted a voodoo doll of you by the time you get there and be casually twisting needles into its eyes. They will perhaps also have started a rumour about you on Twitter that you punch kittens in your spare time. They’ll definitely pop out to the car park and let the air out of your tyres while the doctor examines you.

The receptionist does this with everyone. Their job is more than just answering the phone and having loud, inappropriate conversations with their colleagues about wild nights out. Doctors employ them to destroy the soul of every patient, just for fun.