pics &

poems

Another waiting room. You can’t imagine how much I enjoy them. This, I believe, is my 19th experience of one in the 265 days since I was officially declared ‘ill’, and I’ve the strangest feeling it will be the most interesting yet.

My illness, as you have probably guessed, is of the mind, or so the authorities will assure you. But I disagree, and in due course I’m confident that I’ll be able to prove it beyond any reasonable doubt. In the meantime I have much to occupy me—

‘Alice, I’m going for coffee. Want some chocolate?’

Oh, how rude of me. I should have introduced you straight away. The dark-skinned goddess gliding through the door is Lola – Nurse Lola. She, joy of joys, was assigned to me 72 days ago. That day, a Sunday, was my 33rd birthday, and no man who has or will ever walk upon this earth could have received a better present. Lola makes me happy, and later on today I hope to make Lola happy. I’ll talk more of her when she returns. For now, though, you should know that my real name is Christian, not Alice.

When we were first introduced I detected a certain discomfort in Lola’s eyes – the cause of which seemed to be related to my rather sophisticated public schoolboy name. My conviction was upheld when, after a firm handshake and a no-nonsense, “Hello,” Lola asked if I had a preferred nickname. This was a decidedly odd manoeuvre, since asking a suspected loony if he has an alternative name is akin to asking a hedgehog if it has spines.

As a rule I’m a rather humourless sort but, presented with such a tasty opportunity, I succumbed. My choice, as you have heard, was prompted by two emotions: a desire to be associated with an ageing rock star with a penchant for sadism and dolls and empathy with the fictional character beloved by all…

But I digress. Let me tell you a little more about waiting rooms. Did you know that no two constructs are exactly the same? Even if assembled in groups to exact specifications a unique identity develops within days. I’m not referring here to the mundane such as chair arrangements or notice-board clutter. No, I refer instead to my own carefully considered trio of factors.

First we have spiders. These tiny creatures adore waiting rooms. Such areas are rarely dusted, the frequent comings and goings of their clientele provides a ready source of airborne sustenance, and finally, they are invariably stale. Their rain-afflicted or sweaty visitors see to that. Man’s best friend might be the canine, but in a waiting room nothing emulates Homo sapiens like arachnids. Together they wait like toys on a shelf. Some like stone, dead to the world. Others fidget, pace, hover, dart from place to place. Then there are the watchers: dark, deep, shifty, scanning the room, top to bottom, nook to cranny. A pair of eyes, six or eight, it doesn’t matter. Everything to be seen is seen, everything of note is noted. Two species co-exist in the same space. One, a simple creature, bound by its own creation: an intricate, gossamer-like rigging. The other, an intellectual masterpiece bound by its own creation – four blank walls…

An excerpt from the short story, Lola in Glass

by Ivan Jacob Kurst

Available on Amazon