Low life | 6 December 2012

When I rang for an appointment, the receptionist said, ‘Can you be here within the hour?’ I arrived with ten minutes to spare and presented myself before her. ‘Have you been here before, Mr Clarke?’ she said. ‘I have, yes,’ I said. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said, studying her computer screen with interest. She wrote a six-figure number at the top of an appointments card in black Biro and pushed it across the counter. On this visit and on any subsequent visit, she said, I would always be referred to by this number instead of by my name.

I took a seat in the waiting area. In the past I’ve always been perfectly happy to have my surname yelled out when it was my turn to go in. But it is a wonderful thing to live in an Age of Progress and I am not complaining. Two minutes and three paragraphs into a fascinating magazine piece about Kate Middleton’s exciting new hairstyle, a young male nurse was standing at the door and calling my number.