As I ambled down the passageways I realised that I’d be in this place previously, it was extremely familiar, and it smelled the same from all those years before. Long ago it looked the same, it had not been transformed at all as I transferred glances with my sibling. It still had the identical layer of paint. That was presently flaying off, and it was clear that no one had bothered with it for all that time.
A lifetime seemed to have gone by, however, this place reverberated fragments of a far-off animated existence, or at least numerous lives. Yet, in this place that I took a seat, I expected to see something entirely different, and as I sat there in a complete loathing I couldn’t accept how nothing had altered. Things invariably transform, they must do in order to be able to move on, nevertheless, in this instance they clearly didn’t.
Clearly a few things had altered, people had come and gone, infants had been delivered, doctors had left active service, and a few doctors had passed away on to a further realm, however, this domain had not altered at all. Nothing had altered here, it was still the same worn-out tasteless sky-blue paint on the surfaces of the walls, with dimly illuminated lighting, and furnishings that were in precisely the identical place, and it was like I had gone back in time, thirty years in time, even the fawn cubicle dividers where in the very same place.
This place reverberated sounds from my past, the coming and going of patients that swayed along hallways to pliable chairs for hours and hours before being examined by a doctor that poked and prodded you in different areas of your vajayjay. Thirty years previously I had been one of those patients that were being poked and prodded. After giving in my piss pot to an exceedingly nice nurse so that it could be examined, then gave back after being cleaned out for the subsequent visit.
I’ve had four children at this maternity unit, my youngest offspring will be 24 years old in December, and things have not transformed since then, I mean not anything, apart from the personnel that runs the maternity unit at Basildon Hospital, in Essex, and I was utterly shocked to discover that nothing had altered, apart from the entry that you use to come in the maternity unit. Following thirty years, you would imagine that at a minimum they would have changed the paint on the walls, or at least make it a little more aesthetically pleasing.
They have updated a few other portions of the hospital, why not this annex? Mind you, going back to when my sons were brought into this terrestrial sphere, rooms for childbirth were nothing exceeding broom closets, so why would I conceive that a cosmetic upgrade would be any different?
THE MONTHLY MOSQUITO 