When I rang my doctor to schedule an appointment recently, the surly receptionist made like she was doing me a favour by slotting me in. They were all booked out, I was lucky to get a spot. Allegedly.
On the ride over to the doctors office a week later, I hit the school finish rush. A quick trip disintegrated into a car park, I was sweating bullets, I wasn’t going to make it. My slot would be taken and I would have to spend the rest of my afternoon in the waiting room catching up on the Bold and the Beautiful hoping for a cancellation.
But when I got there, the place was empty. I stood at the counter for a few seconds while the same surly receptionist informed a caller over the phone that she was doing them a favour by slotting them in.
This ain’t a nightclub, lady. Just get me in.
