I’ve decided I’m fed up with writing about insomnia. It remains. So be it.
I was in the waiting room of my GP the other day and I saw a picture on the wall which I’d never noticed before. I had one of those “what if” flashes that occur far too infrequently. Oh come on, it beats writing about insomnia…
The blue-framed picture stood out from the white wall. It framed a poppy field scene; a blaze of red with a copse of trees in the distance and, further still, white-tipped mountains, hard and stark against the blue summer sky.
The buzzer sounded. The person next to me go up and shuffled through the waiting room. A door opened and a white-coated doctor stood, clipboard in hand, and ushered the man through the door.
“Good morning Mr…”
The door closed. I was next. I looked at the picture again, studying the contrasts of the blood red poppies against the yellow cornfield against the white mountains against the painful blue sky. I liked the green, it was reassuring, a place of rest for the eyes in this riot of colour. I looked at the trees, full in their summer coat of green. Something moved. It wasn’t out of the corner of my eye, I was staring directly at it, damn it.
Yes, it definitely moved. What the hell? Behind one of the trees a figure, a man appeared. He poked his head and shoulders out from behind the trunk. I looked away, it would be ok, just look away, look at the window, think about that bus that’s crawling past in the slush outside. I looked back. Still there, he was still there. He waved, the little bastard waved to me.
A door opened down the corridor and I heard a shambling gait amble towards the reception area. I was next.
I looked up at the picture. The little man was joined by a friend. They both waved as they came out from behind the tree. The buzzer sounded and the door opened. A man in a white coat and clipboard appeared.
“Good morning Mr…”
I looked at the picture one more time.
Thank God I was next.