I detest going, so I usually wait until all other home remedies and cures have failed before I tip up in the grotty waiting room, where you are bound to pick something else up to go with your other ailments.
This evening there looked like there were hundreds of people before me, but it was actually a party of four, a party of three, and me and another woman who had mind-bogglingly managed to bring ourselves.
One couple had a baby in a pushchair. The baby didn’t seem ill. The man, who looked too similar to the baby to not be his father, was talking loud enough for me to hear. And the tone of the conversation was very pleasant and chatty with the woman who had to be his partner (unless she had just stolen him and the baby). The strange thing was that he was asking her random questions, like you might ask someone you had just met in a bar. And she was answering them. If it were me, he would have got an instantaneous killer look for his inane and excessively loud conversation.
One may have escaped over my book as it was.
There must be something wrong with me.
It’s a good book.