A pre Christmas adventure!

It wasn’t my fault. It was because my wallet was black.

Or I could blame Ceri. I was wearing the wireless headphones with the Afternoon Play on Radio 4 soothing my ears. It was a twee version of ‘The Borrowers’. I have to admit that when it comes to the afternoon play I prefer something with someone like Janet Suzman in it (a voice made for radio) and themes touching on all the major horrors of humankind. You know the sort of play: one that suddenly stops just after one of the major characters makes a portentous statement which leaves you wondering what the hell is going on and then there is the continuity announcer dragging you back to ‘reality.’ Whatever.

The point was that I was listening to a radio play when I should have been elsewhere.

Why I should have been elsewhere relates back to a small oblong of printed paper which had details of my appointment with the medical person who is giving me stern looks and sharp words about my weight. I should have gone to see Pablo (sic.) on the 15th of December in Room 18 of our Medical Centre.

It does not take the sharpest mind to look at that “should have” in the previous sentence to work out that I may, inadvertently have transposed those two numbers. Which I did, realizing on the 17th of December that it was two days after the date at which I should have been in the centre.

As Pablo (who is a mere child and therefore lacks the decency and tact to restrain him from nagging his elders) would undoubtedly have used this mistake to add vigour to his admonishes I was somewhat reluctant to shuffle into the centre and admit my guilt.

However, as my medication has recently been changed as an experiment I had only been given enough to take me up to round about the date of my next appointment. On the 15th. I was therefore getting perilously low on the pills and had to get more.

Therefore, biting the bullet (which was more than I could do with the pills) I marched into the centre and attempted to explain what had happened. This went relatively well and I was given another appointment with Pablo in January. The pills could, I knew, be supplied by going to the pharmacy in the centre where a few clicks on the computer and a prescription would fall into my hands.

Unfortunately I had forgotten my e-book to make the inevitable waiting bearable but following the tradition of asking ¿Ultimo? To the scattered fragments of humanity littering the seats around the pharmacy I managed to identify the gentleman who was last and take my seat. Once again I marvelled at the complex social and psychological problems which faced each new comer who, after asking who was last, then had to take a seat in the rows of seats down the corridor from the door of the pharmacy at the end of said corridor.

I remember once being shown a very funny (and deeply disturbing) animated cartoon film about the correct etiquette a gentleman should adopt when entering a public convenience and selecting an appropriate urinal. The film adopted the form of a public service announcement and the voice over was delivered in a deadpan manner which increased the humour. Needless to say the logic which determined the selection became more and more extended and the film ended in mayhem and considerable carnage. I feel that such a film could be made based on the complexity of the moves (people do not keep to the same seats throughout their wait) in our medical centre. I sometimes feel that a newspaper should take a photograph of the corridor and the seats then take another photo of a new arrival and ask the readers put an ‘X’ where the person would be most likely to sit. Compared to this the chess problem would be easy.

After my endless wait which I filled by jotting down some responses to the P G Wodehouse stories that I have been reading recently I eventually made my way into the holy of holies. And was told that my new drugs were not on the system and even if they were I would not be entitled to them until January. The only option was to see a ‘Medico.’ As I have now become partially acclimatized to nugatory waiting I returned to the desk where I attempted to explain to the same person who had given me a new appointment for Pablo in January that I needed to see a doctor to get my new pills. She now adopted Pablo’s technique and gave me a good talking to intimating that to run out of pills was patient behaviour of the most pernicious kind. At that moment Pablo appeared on the edge of my vision smiled at me in an pitying manner and passed on.

I was given an appointment for a quarter to four in the afternoon of the same day. Today. I was well pleased. Things seemed to be working out well. I was so complacent that I decided, on my return to the flat, to clean the floors. I am no sloven and I relish cleanliness; but you have to understand that all our floors are tile, so to clean them is no mere running of the hoover around but an altogether more serious affair of brush and pan and mop and pail. So you will appreciate my positive state of mind that I contemplated this Herculean task with something approaching composure and Radio 4 on the headphones.

I had extended the area of operations to the balcony when, with the sun tempting me to a laze with a cup of tea I glanced at my watch and noted that it was a quarter to four. I now know what Saul must have felt like when the scales fell from his eyes – I immediately remembered that I should have been in the medical centre.

In less time than was physically possible (and keeping roughly to the speed limits) I got to the medical centre. In a sort of staggering run from the car I attempted both to rush to my late appointment and also to brush the tell tale signs of cleaning which had besmirched my jeans. Arriving at the door of the centre I felt in my pocket for my wallet which had my medical card and the appointment details.

Nothing. Empty.

Spain is not the sort of country that you can get anything without a number, an official number, on an official card.

With sinking heart I approached the counter for the third time in as many hours. I poured out my sorry tale in at least three languages and maintained that my wallet was lost. They eventually pitied me and directed me to a room and a doctor.

I was flustered and thinking about my wallet and when I had last seen it. Then the doctor appeared and called my name.

He asked me how I was and, as he turned to the computer I poured out my sorry tale again. At the end of it, he said, in Spanish that he had not understood a single word! As I had repeated (roughly) what I had said at the counter downstairs, I realised just how eager the girls must have been to get rid of me. They must have adopted the age old strategy for inexplicable situations and pushed it up to the next level and dismissed it.

I know that this doctor can speak good English but he refuses (quite rightly) to use it unless there is total incomprehension bordering on violence. I therefore revisited my previous multi-lingual explanation and tried to bring it back into the bounds of something approaching Spanish. This I eventually did (with minimal help from the doctor) and all was eventually made well. My blood pressure was lower; my next appointment was confirmed; my next blood test scheduled; my prescription given; my next general prescription date noted.

All I needed to do now was to collect my wallet from the flat and go to the Chemist and get my subsidised prescription.

But my wallet was not in the flat. As the saying goes, the more I looked for it, the more it wasn’t there! All the obvious places were checked. I retraced by steps. I checked everything three times and took everything out of anything that I had put things in. I thus followed Madster’s recipe for finding things. But I didn’t. It resolutely refused to be found.

I now have my wallet. It was not in the flat. It was in the car. It was on the passenger’s side front seat. It was black you see. Like the seat. I had not noticed it. Neither, more to the point had any passing thief.

I poured myself a cup of tea.