‘Every job we do starts by listening to you.’ I stand staring at this sign for a long time as I queue at St George’s Hospital, Tooting.
The waiting area of the X-ray unit is like the easyJet check-in zone at Gatwick when they’ve just cancelled a flight to Alicante. No, that’s not right. It’s like a bombed-out military airbase in a failed state mid Nato evacuation.
People of all creeds and nations are swarming about. The chatter of a dozen different languages makes an impenetrable din. Some are desperate. Others resigned. The more robust ones are trying to make the best of things. I’m sure I spy someone firing up a portable camping stove.
I could have misread it, of course. A David Koresh-style cult leader could have set up the headquarters of an end-of-days hippy camp. Old men sleep on chairs pushed together, women pace with babies on hips. There is absolutely no system.
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