I went to hospital to get something fitted in my mouth. I’ll spare you the details. But the insertion of this device wasn’t the stressful bit. Getting to the clinic, which was on the 26th floor, proved a far trickier procedure.
The place was busy. I picked my way across the crowded lobby to find a queue for the lift, perhaps 10 metres long. Grumpily, I joined what I took to be the back of it. Who doesn’t resent queueing for a lift? I got a tap on my arm. This was a woman, calm but hostile, accusing me of pushing in. I protested my innocence, at which point she dropped the calm bit and fired up a bollocking of such ferocity that I just ran up the white flag and shuffled miserably to the back of the queue. By now it had doubled in length. Progress was slow.
