Where Is Fanny Stain When You Need Her !

 I always spell my surname out when I encounter any officialdom.

It’s a habit, I’ve got into as many people spell my surname as in the colour and not the Scottish/Irish monika.

The receptionist was polite enough, though I did have to wait a little as Karen still hadn’t come back from her break yet , cue much eye rolling.

The ultrasound department is like any other small hospital outpatients. 

Faceless and sanitized.

Another two men, patients too were sat in a gown to my right. 

One looked nervous .

Another receptionist called out “ Thomas Jefferson “ but no one reacted.

She snorted and picked up the phone

The three of us sat in silence for a while longer.

I got out my phone and started to write this blog after Karen or was it Annette could be heard muttering 

“ I don’t know where Mr Jefferson has got to…what does he look like?”

We are all invisible, I thought to myself , invisible  men in our sixties

I galloped backwards in my mind to the minors unit at Sheffield’s Royal Hallamshire Hospital.

Circa 1989

A student nurse with a set of false notes was calling a patient into minors for a procedure, she was blushing with the importance of calling the next patient in whilst surrounded by the poorly general public 

“ Fanny Stain? Is there a Fanny Stain here?” She called out hopefully

And from behind the nurses station came the muffled hysteria only hospital staff can be responsible for .