Though fragile, my mother proudly says that she still has her marbles, reads a lot, takes an interest in politics and showers members of the family with free advice, causing young ones to roll their eyes.
Discussing the obvious looming Depression and dire warnings about the ramifications of global warming, she says the world is in a frightful mess. With a nervous laugh, she wondered if now was the time for aliens from outer space to come down and save the world. While I jollied mother along , I did not tell her that I know for certain that humanoid creatures from another galaxy are already here and, as repeatedly revealed by the X-File, are wiping out -not saving- inferior earthlings.
Due to their cunning ways , I am in the process of being obliterated , lost in space and erased from computer records. Don’t scoff. Read my coffee stained case history before it is scrubbed by malevolent aliens covering their devious tracks.
At the suggestion of a GP, I underwent an eye test at an optician’s , and rang for a follow up consultation. Certainly, come to the op shop. Arriving at reception , I was welcomed like one of the family, the computer was tapped . What is your name again ?... When were you here ?... Who did you see ?... What was the nature of the consultation on that occasion ? I had obviously been transported to another dimension. I did not exist .
Told to sit down , the bod who saw me in the first instance , emerged and had a close look at me, then darted back into his dark den. When he re-emerged , we had this rather strange conversation as if he could not remember my visit of two weeks ago. I repeated that I had been experiencing painful , needle-like jabs to the eyeballs. His solution : a squirt of el cheapo eye drops.
Returning from this expedition to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Lost World , I decided to ring the local hospital to find out what had happened to my appointment to see a cardiac specialist . It was about three months since I first rang and had been told they would ring back . I gave my name…Clickety-click could be heard over the phone … Who ? I repeated my name …When did you first ring here ? I gave the date and name of the referring doctor who had faxed through my case . Clickety-click.
Did I have an appointment to see a gynaecologist ? Definitely not ! I am of the male gender and can produce overwhelming , but small , evidence to prove it . My daughter, however , had seen a gynaecologist. After this amazing exchange which left me wondering if I was Arthur or Martha, I eventually got an appointment. When I fronted the reception desk to see the heart doc a woman, mesmerised by the computer , possibly receiving invasion details from Planet Zog, tapped away, not acknowledging my presence.
Without making eye contact, she eventually asked for my name , which I supplied in a deep, manly voice. Clickety-click . Strangely enough , it did not take long to find me , no doubt due to the fact that I had established early in the piece that my fallopian tubes were firing on all cylinders like a NASA Saturn rocket.
As there was no Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy, I rejected the crapulous magazines on offer in the waiting room. However, when the ECG technician , who had been calling people out by their surname, hesitated and trumpeted my Christian name , I knew once more the aliens were at work .
You guessed it, I had undergone a christening in the waiting room baptismal font and, to my surprise, my surname was now my first name . Comparing notes with an old buddy who frequently has to visit or is rushed to the same hospital in an ambulance, he told me he carefully checks the name on all medication there as on several occasions they have tried to give him somebody else’s potent brew which could worsen his severe ailments , conditions which have brought him close to death on several times.
Kevin Rudd must be from another planet or has a million schoolkids on computers working out a green paper solution if he thinks he can straighten out the sick , creaking medical service of this nation which has been battered almost to death by Martians , under funding , ideology and base vested interests , not to mention those brave medicos scared to blow the whistle on dangerous situations which are evident to staff lower down the pecking and kicking order.
On my latest visit to the heart doctor, the same spaced out receptionist, looking suspiciously like a re-incarnation of Queen Nefertiti , due to extensive use of eyeliner , was transfixed by her computer screen . As expected , the doctor called me by my christian /surname. When I asked him what was the result of my ECG , he hit the computer. Clickety-click. Clickety-click. Clickey-click. That’s strange , for some odd reason, it was not there. Further evidence that I was in the process of becoming a non-person , another H. G. Wells Invisible Man .
A knowing smirk on his face, the doctor told me to come back in a year’s time . Was he in league with those evil ones, armed with computers, taking over the troubled world ? Would I be turned into iodised salt long before the next appointment? Mum might still have her marbles, but I suspect I am losing mine, including the beaut Connie Agates made from fascinating imported moonstones.
Discussing the obvious looming Depression and dire warnings about the ramifications of global warming, she says the world is in a frightful mess. With a nervous laugh, she wondered if now was the time for aliens from outer space to come down and save the world. While I jollied mother along , I did not tell her that I know for certain that humanoid creatures from another galaxy are already here and, as repeatedly revealed by the X-File, are wiping out -not saving- inferior earthlings.
Due to their cunning ways , I am in the process of being obliterated , lost in space and erased from computer records. Don’t scoff. Read my coffee stained case history before it is scrubbed by malevolent aliens covering their devious tracks.
At the suggestion of a GP, I underwent an eye test at an optician’s , and rang for a follow up consultation. Certainly, come to the op shop. Arriving at reception , I was welcomed like one of the family, the computer was tapped . What is your name again ?... When were you here ?... Who did you see ?... What was the nature of the consultation on that occasion ? I had obviously been transported to another dimension. I did not exist .
Told to sit down , the bod who saw me in the first instance , emerged and had a close look at me, then darted back into his dark den. When he re-emerged , we had this rather strange conversation as if he could not remember my visit of two weeks ago. I repeated that I had been experiencing painful , needle-like jabs to the eyeballs. His solution : a squirt of el cheapo eye drops.
Returning from this expedition to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Lost World , I decided to ring the local hospital to find out what had happened to my appointment to see a cardiac specialist . It was about three months since I first rang and had been told they would ring back . I gave my name…Clickety-click could be heard over the phone … Who ? I repeated my name …When did you first ring here ? I gave the date and name of the referring doctor who had faxed through my case . Clickety-click.
Did I have an appointment to see a gynaecologist ? Definitely not ! I am of the male gender and can produce overwhelming , but small , evidence to prove it . My daughter, however , had seen a gynaecologist. After this amazing exchange which left me wondering if I was Arthur or Martha, I eventually got an appointment. When I fronted the reception desk to see the heart doc a woman, mesmerised by the computer , possibly receiving invasion details from Planet Zog, tapped away, not acknowledging my presence.
Without making eye contact, she eventually asked for my name , which I supplied in a deep, manly voice. Clickety-click . Strangely enough , it did not take long to find me , no doubt due to the fact that I had established early in the piece that my fallopian tubes were firing on all cylinders like a NASA Saturn rocket.
As there was no Hitchhikers’ Guide to the Galaxy, I rejected the crapulous magazines on offer in the waiting room. However, when the ECG technician , who had been calling people out by their surname, hesitated and trumpeted my Christian name , I knew once more the aliens were at work .
You guessed it, I had undergone a christening in the waiting room baptismal font and, to my surprise, my surname was now my first name . Comparing notes with an old buddy who frequently has to visit or is rushed to the same hospital in an ambulance, he told me he carefully checks the name on all medication there as on several occasions they have tried to give him somebody else’s potent brew which could worsen his severe ailments , conditions which have brought him close to death on several times.
Kevin Rudd must be from another planet or has a million schoolkids on computers working out a green paper solution if he thinks he can straighten out the sick , creaking medical service of this nation which has been battered almost to death by Martians , under funding , ideology and base vested interests , not to mention those brave medicos scared to blow the whistle on dangerous situations which are evident to staff lower down the pecking and kicking order.
On my latest visit to the heart doctor, the same spaced out receptionist, looking suspiciously like a re-incarnation of Queen Nefertiti , due to extensive use of eyeliner , was transfixed by her computer screen . As expected , the doctor called me by my christian /surname. When I asked him what was the result of my ECG , he hit the computer. Clickety-click. Clickety-click. Clickey-click. That’s strange , for some odd reason, it was not there. Further evidence that I was in the process of becoming a non-person , another H. G. Wells Invisible Man .
A knowing smirk on his face, the doctor told me to come back in a year’s time . Was he in league with those evil ones, armed with computers, taking over the troubled world ? Would I be turned into iodised salt long before the next appointment? Mum might still have her marbles, but I suspect I am losing mine, including the beaut Connie Agates made from fascinating imported moonstones.
Cyclops
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