Dear Diary #2

Dear Diary,

I have been summoned by the bureaucratic powers within The Hospital. I know it’s the doctors and nurses who wield the power of regeneration and imbuing of health, but it’s the bureaucratic people that have the iron grip. The iron grip with the deft touch of the artist – otherwise they’d just keep smashing all the pencils they pick up. A name is called, be right back…Not mine.

I sit in the waiting room, and feel my intelligence stagnating. The chairs are arranged to face the Administrator of this clinic. She wields the power of the papers, the timetable and my eventual release. I chose a seat against a wall. I prefer this to another row of Administrator audience. I fear they’d lean forward and ask me when the performance will begin, and do I like her previous works. It is quiet, with only one old Italian lady daring to raise her voice against the frozen-smiled chatter of the Morning television program. The presenters wear team colours for sports they do not understand, and Old Italian Lady says something to her husband about a child. Or a fish. My italian is rusty – but she’s definitely speaking it. She continues her one-sided conversation from across the room. A name is called – be-right-back…But it’s a girl’s name.

Mentally I once more search my backpack. I know for a fact there is no book in there, but I like to think that if I search it mentally often enough, I can imagine a book that may be in there. And then I can imagine the joy of reading it. The joy of this imagination would sustain me, and be the mental equivalent of isometric exercises in the 6 foot cell that my intelligence is currently occupying. A name is called, b-r-b…For a moment I think it’s one vowel repeated with a strange rhythm.

Everything smells of hand-santiser. It occurs to me that there is a very real chance every item in this room has been exposed to direct contact with hand-santiser, trace elements of the powerful green germicide potentially holding vigilance on surfaces as far as the mind can think. A name is called. Sounds familiar.

And so I sit here, part of the captive audience, the only sounds being the hoarse whisper of the Old Italian Lady, and the fabricated cheerful tones coming from the TV, lamenting the ever-constant trickling away of my will to thi-oh wait, that’s my name. Burub.


bur-ub [buhr-ub]


a distance descendant of longer, multi-worded expressions used to express an exit accompanied by a promise to return.

~ by nick on September 28, 2012.

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