The first trial of Heracles was to kill the Lion of Nemea, son of Typhon and Echidna. Another trial was to capture a mad bull which was terrorizing Crete.
My first trial today was to get myself registered with a doctor. My second was to get some money out of the bank to pay my rent and my third was to report to the inspecteur of my circonscription (the schools inspector for that catchment area). And if you’re wondering why I am comparing these seemingly facile tasks to the arduous feats of a divine hero, pray allow me to enlighten you a little...
I arrived at the doctor’s surgery at 10am, armed with papers, passport and all manner of documentation. Despite the French people’s love of all things to do with paperwork I really thought registering would be a simple matter of speaking to the receptionist and writing my name down somewhere. I brought the papers with me just in case because it would have been très annoying to have to trek home in the blistering heat to get them if I did need them.
However when I got there I realised there was no reception and hence no receptionist. You walk straight into the waiting room and there, hanging on the wall, is a bundle of little papers with numbers on them, a bit like the ones you get on a supermarket meat counter only handwritten.
Five or six sickly faces looked up with tired eyes as I opened the door.
“C’est ici le medicin?” I asked, suddenly unsure if I’d just walked into a very odd party at someone’s house by mistake.
“Oui.” they chorused flatly. “Faut prendre un ticket.”
So I took a ticket (number 28) and sat down. I was sitting there for about half an hour with no sign of any movement in and out of the doctor’s actual room. “Oh well,” I thought. “There’s only five people here. It can’t take that long...”
Suddenly a man from the street popped his head round the door.
“C’est quel numero maintenant?” He asked.
The chorus of invalids piped up, “Dix”.
Ten?! What?! I thought they were on number twenty three. That changed things a bit. I decided to go to the bank and the supermarket and come back a bit later.
The bank experience was fairly successful. I had to speak to the woman I’d make a tit of myself on the phone to with the ‘papa’ thing – and she always looks quite amused to see me – but I managed to get my money without any problems or further embarrassment. The supermarket however was another hurdle to further the day’s fruitlessness. When I got there the shutters were down and there was a sign on the door saying they were closed for stock taking. “Well...no problem.” I thought. “I’ll just pop into the doctor’s again to see what number they’re on and then try the other supermarket.
They were on number twelve. I waited an hour, during which time only one more person was seen by the doctor, and I found out from overhearing someone else’s conversation that the other supermarket was stock taking as well and wouldn’t reopen until 2pm. Already mildly annoyed at having wasted precious beach time I resolved to trek up the hill home, eat something quickly and then come back with my swimming stuff in a bag so I could jump straight in the sea after seeing the doc.
It took me half an hour to walk home, by which time I was absolutely drenched with sweat, parched, dizzy with hunger (It seems I need to eat about ten times more here – and ten times more frequently too) and totally red in the face. I thought I was quite fit before I came here but seriously, walking for ten minutes in this heat is like doing three hours with Mr Motivator.
I took a quick shower and replenished my energy stores with water, tea and a tasty stew I’d made out of chicken legs, carrots, onions, lentils, beans and spices. I got changed, slapped on a load of sunscreen and felt much better.
I got back to the doctor’s at about 2pm. They were on number 21. I had a stroke of luck though when Number 25 decided he couldn’t wait any longer and gave me his ticket on his way out, pushing me forward a precious three places in the queue. However, I waited for an hour and a half and Dr Jean-Marie had still only made it to number 23. As I had to be at the inspecteur’s place in Beausejour (half an hour’s walk from my house in the opposite direction from the doctor’s) by 5pm and I needed to take another shower and get changed again out of my bikini and beach dress and into something respectable before then, I realised I couldn’t stay any longer. And so like the original Number 25, and with a heavy heart, I gave my precious ticket to a delighted ex-Number 29.
My friends, if you had just spent most of the day in a poorly ventilated waiting room with dozens of sick people, all coughing and spluttering, and babies crying, and mosquitoes in abundance, only to walk away at the end of it having achieved virtually nothing, you may well agree with me that my day today rivalled a typical day in the life of Heracles, the paragon of manhood.
...or you might just call me a big drama queen and tell me to shut up...
Oh, I saw a funny sign in the toilets in the Inspecteur’s place. Well I thought it was funny anyway. I’ve uploaded a picture of it - and for those of you who don't speak French, it basically says 'Don't piss round the edge of the toilet'.
Bisous. xx
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