Embarrassing isn't it?  Waiting at the doctor's with the sort of problem others find amusing.  Even if your fellow patients don't actually know, you feel as if they must.

“Sheer paranoia,”  I hear you say, “Most of them will be too busy worrying about their own ailments to notice.”  True, but some problems are more embarrassing than others, ones relating to odd parts of the body, certain orifices.

On the day in question, mine was of the latter sort.  I fudged round it with the receptionist.  “I just need to see the doc,” I said and, since the problem wasn't obvious, managed to keep it secret throughout her practised questioning.  Officialdom had been thwarted and wasn't happy.

I sat down, waiting to be overcome by boredom.  It didn't happen.  Inside me, tension was building; an irresistible, childish guilt at the possession of such an embarrassing problem.  It wanted me to stand up, in front of everybody, and blurt out every horrid detail.

The waiting room filled, the urge grew, soon it was unstoppable.  I desperately needed a compromise.  My immediate neighbour looked trustworthy; a man who would smile tolerantly but still respect a confidence.  I forced my voice into a semblance of normality:

“It's not painful,” I husked, “My problem, that is.”

“So?” he muttered, adjusting his position.

“I need to tell someone about it.”

“Why me?” he grimaced.

“Please.”

“Well make it snappy.  I rather think I'm next.” - He wasn't, but I let it pass.

“It's my nose.  There's something up it.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” he asked, anxiously, almost aggressively.

Not the reaction I expected.  Maybe his ailment was aromatic; I couldn't tell.

“No,” I said, “I really do have something up my nose, left nostril, a small rubber-ball.”

He eyed me in disgust, “I thought only silly kids did that,” he said, “Usually with beads.”

My embarrassment flared; “Er, I didn't do it deliberately.”

“You sure about that? How old are you anyhow?” - I ignored that one and sighed.  At least the urge to shout was fading, even if the colour in my face wasn't.

Seeing my discomfort, he relented, “Go on then.”

I continued gratefully, “It happened while I was reading a book.”

“A book? What was it about?”

“What? Oh, some heavy paperback or other.  It doesn't matter.”

“I like books,” he announced, waving the thin volume he still had his thumb stuck in.

“Oh, sorry.  I didn't know you were trying to read.”

“In your state you wouldn't have noticed if I'd been nearly bleedin' dead.”

“Sorry, er, sorry.  I'll shut up then.”

The urge was back in the ascendancy.  I wondered if the woman on my other side would be more sympathetic.  Then, with a grunt, he removed his thumb from the book, replaced it with a comb and shoved it in his pocket.

“So, how does a book give you Ball-up-the-Nose-Disease?”

“I said it was weighty, didn't I.  Sort of book that makes you tired just holding it.”

“Ah, that sort,” he grinned, “Never read that sort.  Makes your arm tired.”

“I just said that.”

“So you did.  How thick?” - did he mean himself, me or the book?

I plumped for the latter, “Well over two inches, nearly two ‘n’ a half, I'd say.”

“Yes, I'd say that was thick.”

“Sorry?”  I hadn't heard him over the raised voice of the woman on my other side.  She was wondering, loudly, what had happened to the doctor.  If this was for the benefit of the toffee-nosed receptionist, I admired her pluck.

A cough brought my attention back to the man.  He looked offended, having given up a lurid novel for my tale of woe, he had every right.

“Sorry, didn't catch you.  The doctor is taking rather a long time, isn't she?”

“You'll get used to that!” he muttered, expression clearing as umbrage gave way to grudging curiosity.  “But, I still don't get it.”

“What?”  I'd lost my thread; perhaps the nasal blockage was effecting my brain.

“I don't get the connection between books and rubber-balls up the nose.”

“Oh, right!  It's a matter of thickness.  I thought we'd got that clear?”

“Thickness and rubber-balls?”

“Tiny rubber balls, small enough to go up your nose.”

“Not to mention being big enough to get stuck.  Have you tried sneezing?”

“I tried blocking up one nostril and blowing hard.  No good.”

“You did block up th....”

“Of course I did, I'm not a total idiot.”

“Never doubted you!” - He was lying of course.

“Look, I'm trying to tell you.  It was my patent eight quid book-prop that did it.”

“Book-prop? A sort of holder, a Look-No-Hands, sort of thing?”

“Exactly.  Trouble is, even at eight quid, it can't cope with thick books.”

“I know just how it feels!”

“You lean the book back on this sort of plastic lectern, with a pair of hinged wire things on the front.  You hold back the pages with the wire things.”

“I see.  These wire bits, got some sort of springs, have they?”

“Yes, that's the trouble.  Rather weak ones.”

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “I get it now.  Drives you so mad, you just have to stick little balls up your nose.”

“No, No, No!”

I shook my head.  Felt something move in my nasal cavity and panicked.  Through the tears, the woman's face loomed in front of mine.  She offered me her asthma spray.  The man brushed her away, patted me on the shoulder, offered kind words.

“OK, calm down.  Keep snorting like that and the doctor will lose a job.”

“Or a patient,” said the woman, taking a precautionary puff from her inhaler.

My breathing returned to half-sided normality, with the ball still firmly lodged.

“Nasty things balls,” chuckled the woman, bending double in her attempt to look up my nose, “Are you sure I can't get you something, luv?  Glass of water, corkscrew?”

“Have you been listening?” I gasped.

“We all have!” came the chorus.  I glared at the jumbled faces, they stared back.

The ball seemed to be growing, filling my head, the floor opening to swallow me.  However, I was confident that the ball would save me, by then my nose felt so swollen that it would never pass though any normal hole in the floor.

“Well then? Finish the story!” - It was the bloke.

“Err....”

“Get on with it!” - That was the woman.

“The d-damn pages wouldn't stay open,” I stuttered, “The wire bits were useless.  Every time I tried, the book flapped shut and fell on the floor.  I had to hold it on the stand.”

“So?”

“Makes your arms tired.”

“You might as well have chucked it, then, this book-prop thing.  Written orf the eight quid and gone back on manual, like the rest of us.”

“I was going to, then I had an idea.  Bulldog clips.”

“Bulldog clips, on the wire thing you mean?”

“On the pages, either side.”

“Sounds good.”

“Didn't work.  The book spine was too stiff.  Might have been OK if it had been hard-bound, but this was a paperback.  Even with the clips in place, I still had to hold it.”

“There you are then!  Wot I said before, chuck it!”

“I wasn't going to be beaten, not with eight quid at stake.  I experimented, discovered you could trap the wire prongs in the bulldog clips as well as the pages.  Magic!”

“Still no balls!” said the woman.

“It's all balls!” said the man.

“Just one I'm afraid,” said I, pointing up my nostril.

“So where did it come from?”

“Off the end of the wire bit.  The book-spine was so strong it flipped them both off, one from each prong.  The right one whanged over my shoulder and judging by the splash, depth-charged the goldfish.  The other one….” - I hesitated, expecting mirth.

But no! Most of them were nodding sagely, murmuring in sympathy.

Then, from behind the counter, a choking sound caught our attention.  As we turned to look, it broke into a terrifying squeal.  The dragon-like receptionist was not, as first I thought, dying in the throes of sudden agony, but had erupted into sudden life and laughter.

“W-with the things I hee-hee-hear, in hee-hee-here....  I've bee-bee-been wanting to explode for yee-yee-years.”

It took her several minutes and half a box of pink tissues to muffle the hysteria.  The patients remained seated, too shocked by the unexpected transformation to think of offering assistance.  Soon everyone was talking at once.

No longer the centre of attention, I sat back calmly and waited.  At last, fighting its way through the hubbub, came the long awaited buzz.  Over the surgery door, the red light flipped to green.  The intercom behind the counter asked what on earth was going on.

The receptionist, shedding most of her dignity and many of her apparent years, waved girlishly in my direction, stood up and, leaning though her window, scattered crumpled tissues, like rose petals along my path.

“Doctor'll s-see-see you now,” she giggled.

— • —

Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©1997 & 2007
All rights reserved.

INDEX