The waiting room

The grandfather clock punctuates the afternoon air.  Every so often it misses, inexplicably, like the breath of a sleeping child; heightening my anxiety.

The loud receptionist behind her heavy oak desk takes calls and sorts files.

Is she so insensible to my concern?

My palms are wet.

I try to concentrate on a newspaper article, but find it impossible.

Dust particles dance lazily in the shaft of sunlight projected onto the expensive rug. Absent-mindedly, I draw a path in the nap with the toe of my shoe and then erase in a returning arc. The clock follows my lead and marks each pass.

Are all Harley Street consulting rooms like this?

My God, I’m so stupid. Wouldn’t my condition be the same elsewhere?

There are voices beyond the panelled door, a faint farewell.

A harsh electronic buzz makes me start.

I look up, the receptionist gives me a smile, ‘Mr. Smith will see you now.’