What the doctor ordered

I'm running low on magical cholesterol-melting pills, so I went to the doctor to pick up some more. I wasn't feeling too bright, and it was made worse by the incredibly loud transvestite in the waiting room.

Well, I say transvestite. I may have just been hallucinating a seven foot tool person with the hair of Big Bird and the leathery skin of a flying fox, screeching and cackling to his/her friends at the reception desk for half an hour. A seven foot tall person with a very deep voice and a very short skirt. The stuff of which dreams are made.

After an interminable length of time, while I read the whole of Men's Health Singapore (it has three articles, one on how to talk to women, one on doing pull-ups, and one on not being fat) the person-of-indeterminate-gender went into the surgery, and returned fifteen minutes later, springing out like an over-excited bat to squawk some more.

I slumped in my chair. I was fairly sure the receptionist hadn't even registered me properly, and as the p-o-i-g was continuing to giggle and gibber, with no sign of leaving, this was the soundtrack of the end of my life. I had so much before me. I had the closing ceremony of the Olympics to watch. I've never been to Antwerp. I have yet to see the sun rise over French Polynesia... Still, I've seen attack ships on fire off the rings of Orion, I've seen seabeams - seabeams? Or was it sea bream that Rutger Hauer was so excited by? Never mind.

When I saw the doctor, getting my pills was easy, but then I got him to peer in my mouth at my agonising gums, and he pointed out my erupting wisdom tooth had led to an infected gum, which explained the agony when I try to open my mouth, and maybe the hallucinations of giant transgender terrors from beyond time, space and Geylang. So now I'm full of pills and floating off to sleep. So much for rehearsals, eh?