Not Quite “Waiting For Godot”

By Emil van der Poorten –June 5, 2016

Emil van der Poorten

Wikipedia describes “Waiting for Godot” “as an absurdist play by Samuel Beckett, in which two characters, Vladimir and Estragon, wait endlessly and in vain for the arrival of someone …”

That quote certainly came to mind the other night when I and the rest of the forty-odd “number holders” languished in the corridor of one of the “channel centres” in a provincial capital.

I had symptoms very similar to a friend who had recently been diagnosed with a detached retina and who had had to undergo complicated (and expensive in a private institution) surgery.

I took the usual Sri Lankan route, phoned the “channel centre,” as these places where patients meet consultants are called, and was given a number: eleven, to be exact.

That was a little off-putting because the consultant began seeing patients at 7:30 in the evening and would not, I assumed, go on for too long given the fact that it must have already been a long (professional) day in ward and operating theatre before arrival at “the centre” which, incidentally bears the name of one of those “important” families of that particular city.

My assumptions were to be turned on their head quickly enough.

Despite the fact that I know consultants not to belong in the category of “clock watchers” in the matter of showing up at the times scheduled by them, I arrived a half hour early on a dark and drizzly night which most nights have been for the past little while.

I gave my name, producing, as I always now do, a business card which is expected to do away with the verbal contortions which usually erupt when I have to give that information orally.

Anyway, the officious young lady did get it right, but recorded me only by my first name, something that was not unique to this particular location as I’ve discovered since my return to the country in which I received it.

The fun had only begun.

I moved towards the corridor, jam-packed with humanity awaiting entry into the hallowed chambers in which those who supposedly took the Hippocratic Oath ply their respective trades.

My loss of hearing hasn’t destroyed by ability to read receipts and the one I was given had a female first name. Not a particular problem until I realized that the number allocated to that person was thirty-nine, if I remember right.

Anyway, back to the counter I go in an effort to correct a mistake for which the clerk concerned bore complete responsibility. She, however, appeared most annoyed that I had accepted the wrong receipt and, with a mutter and scowl, dispatched one of her flunkeys in search of the person now carrying a receipt for money paid by Emil and the number eleven on it.

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