Doctor, doctor, I feel like a…

Walking into my Doctor’s surgery, I feel like I should have a bag over my head. I sense knowing glances passing between the receptionists as they silently beam the thought ‘look, its HER again’ at each other.

I’m probably just being paranoid. But since moving a few miles down the road – out of a London Borough and into the wilds of Essex – the difference in healthcare provision is staggering. Far from the waiting room teeming with sneezing, retching, red faced and drooping individuals, and the reception desk manned by unfriendly robotic staff, my new surgery has receptionists who actually REMEMBER WHO I AM, and I’ve never seen more than three people in the waiting room.

Hence my paranoia – they know who I am, and therefore they know that I’ve spent an unfeasibly large amount of time in their waiting room over the last few weeks.

Reasons for this include – pregnancy, problems related to pregnancy, problems relating to the Wee Man liking to stand up in the bath and then subsequently fall over in the bath, me following NHS Direct advice in relation to young unhappy babies, me following NHS Direct advice in relation to older unhappy toddlers, and then of course the regular appointments like immunisations, postnatal checks etc. I’m beginning to feel like maybe I’m a hypochondriac. I’m starting to wonder if one day soon Social Services will be knocking on my door.

It doesn’t help that the Wee Man has just learned the word ‘bruise’.

‘I’ve got a bruise, and Mummy has got a bruise’ he proudly proclaims to anyone who will listen. Great. Now it sounds like we all spend our time beating each other up in this household, where in fact we are all just a bit clumsy. (Actually a lot clumsy). This is not helped by having no time to clean and tidy, which of course leads to more things in the way to trip over.

The lack of time thing also affects our appearances of course. So not only do the Doctor’s Surgery know who I am, they have also only ever seen me looking dishevelled and sweaty, with two snotty nosed (often one screaming) children in tow.

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that paper-bag-on-head wearing to the Doctors should be mandatory for everyone. Not only would it prevent them from instantly knowing who I am, but it would also prevent all those germs being sneezed around the waiting room, as well as hiding terrible bad hair days.

Obviously I will need to convince others to join me in this though, otherwise the Doctor’s surgery will find it even easier to identify me as I stroll through their doors again, being that I am the only crazy paper bag lady on their books. Then, in fact, my paranoia may indeed be justified as I’m CERTAIN that they’ll be thinking those ‘it’s HER again thoughts’, for real.