Another everyday tale from the “donut of despair”, specifically the slice named Wortley.
This one’s written and read by Faye Dawson, who read the story on Monday. And, yes, I believe we did mention originally the idea that we’d try to get someone else to read the stories other than the writer, but it’s early days yet. The rules are set in jelly.
Faye tells me her pre-married name was Faye Turner, and like she says she doesn’t want this to be the Faye Turner Overload, so we are looking for other stories ffom other writers, and other people to read them.
Everyone has a 750 word story in them…
Here’s Faye’s, written more or less straight after it happened, just as we like it.
The Wortley Waiting Room.
I am in the Doctor’s waiting room in Wortley, West Leeds.
It’s mid-afternoon and strangely quiet. There’s a very dapper older gent – full three piece suit, hat and cane, grey beard, longish hair – I’m impressed he’s so well dressed in this heat – and a young couple with a baby in a carry cot.
The receptionist is talking to a presumably hard-of-hearing patient on the phone “Ok Mr Smith”.[not his real name] “We’ll see you then. Alright love. You look after yourself until then.”
I’ve had my challenges with Doctor’s receptionists in the past, but they’ve been having training at Wortley and are so much better these days.
I don’t envy them their job at all. My Mum did it for a while back in the 80s in South Leeds. She had some right stories. People would ring for advice on how to pay their council tax.
They would also give quite detailed accounts of their ailments. Enough to put you off your lunch for sure.
The lift bings loudly to a halt. The woman that exits may think she’s on ‘Stars in Their Eyes’ the way she steps into the waiting room.
I know her type; they usually take a shine to me. I quickly engage with my phone, concentrating hard, furrowed brow. What I’m doing is Very Important (I can’t actually get online).
That phone is a life-saver; I’ve avoided so many unwanted approaches by pretending to be on a call walking down Briggate.
It didn’t stop me getting caught by the woman who sells lucky charms though. She’s been working those streets since I was a kid. She got me once when I was about 20 and asked me if I drove, when I said no she said ‘Well you will.’ She was right. I finally learnt aged 42.
She got me and my Husband recently – mainly because he’ll talk to anyone. She told us how much in love we were and that we had each other’s hearts and then made us by a charm for £20. We didn’t have £20 but gave her a fiver. I was miffed. My Husband wasn’t in the slightest bit phased.
“We are in love!” he chirruped.
Back in the waiting room, The Woman passes me by and catches the eye of the young couple.
“Nice day for a white wedding!” she hollers.
I bloody loved that song.
The couple smile politely.
She starts quite literally cooing over the baby in an over-exaggerated way Coo! Coooo! Coooeee!
She smack her lips together like an elderly person with no teeth. The couple look on with startled smiles.
“I had four kids,” she says. “Lost two.”
I mean what do you say to that?
The young Mum starts to say “Oh, I’m sorry”, but is interrupted by, “Me Nanna had 32.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Yup! 32 kids.’”
I do some quick maths but I’m no Carol Vorderman. Is that actually possible? 32 kids? That poor woman.
The young couple stare at her, open mouthed.
“It was like Little House on the Prairie at me Nanna’s.”
She means The Waltons, I think.
“Aye – loads o’ kids… What’s she in for?”
“Her first jabs.”
“Oooooh she ain’t gonna like that is she?”
Helpful I think. Just what young, new parents want to hear.
“Coo! Cooooo! Coooeee. *lipsmacks*”
The young couple are called in by the Doctor.
I can feel their relief.
The woman wanders off.
I am let off this time
.
When I get home Wikipedia reliably tells me that there were seven children in both Little House on the Prairie and The Waltons.