13October2025 Diary
James, is anyone in the corridor? I called out, halfjoking, as the last patient of the morning shuffled out of the consulting room.
Turn on the kettle and fetch the callout list from reception, said Margaret Hill, the senior nurse, before she sipped her tea and biscuits. She had already logged the visit in the patient file, yet the junior nurse was still missing. Just as I was about to ring reception, Sophie Harper returned, her dark braid trailing down to her waist and her eyes bright with urgency.
Oh, Margaret, you wouldnt believe the scene at reception! A lady threw a right tantrum, Sophie began, breathless. She was twenty minutes late and demanded to be seen immediately, hurling abuse at everyone. It was a nightmare.
Did you have to deal with her, or were you just a spectator? Margaret asked calmly. Did anyone take her in?
No, of course not. She was half an hour late, Dr. Thomas Clarke had already left for his home visits. Mrs. Anne Porter rebooked her for tomorrow, Sophie replied, looking contrite.
Why rebook her with us? She was scheduled with Dr. Clarke, wasnt she? And why did he leave so early? Margaret pressed.
Because Dr. Clarke is on holiday starting tomorrow, Sophie answered, a note of irritation in her voice. I warned her that another tardy arrival would mean wed refuse her.
Understood. How many callouts today?
As always, Sophie sighed, handing Margaret a sheet of names and addresses.
I began numbering each patient, mapping the most efficient route to avoid unnecessary mileage and to keep the day from feeling like a marathon.
Id never work past retirement age. The moment I could, Id quit and finally get some proper sleep, Sophie mused dreamily.
You have two boys, dont you? By the time you retire theyll be grown, married, and probably handing you grandchildren. Youll have no time to rest, I replied, smiling. And when your husband retires too, youll both be stuck at home, annoying each other like two stubborn carrots. Who do you think will dash back to work first?
She laughed, shaking her head. Youre right, Margaret. In three days well be off for our vacation, but by the end of it well be so fed up with each other well be counting the minutes until we return to the clinic. Id rather we each take our own break. What do you think?
What stops you from vacationing separately? I asked.
Well the boys. I cant manage them alone, and I cant leave my husband for too long, she explained.
Alright, Ive got to go, I said, rising from the desk. I slipped into my coat a roomy trench Id bought so I could pull it over my uniform without fuss. After a quick check that Id taken everything, I stepped out into the dusk that was already settling over the town of Whitby.
The first address was a modest terraced house on Elm Street. As I walked, I thought about Sophies complaints. In my youth I never understood why retirees kept working, but now I see many of them spend their days wandering between the surgery and the local shop, as if theyre still on the clock. Ill be retired next year, yet I cant imagine abandoning my rounds; the idea of sitting at home alone feels worse than any shift. Most patients, like that irate lady at reception, are few and far between; the grateful ones are far more common. Over the years Ive built genuine friendships with many of them. What will they do without me? What will I do without my routine?
I climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor of a 1920s cottage where Arthur Whitfield lived. He was a solitary gentleman, a retired schoolmaster with a catalogue of chronic ailments. He opened the door before I even removed my coat, gesturing me inside. I headed straight for the washbasin to clean my hands.
Arthur, dont be cross with me, I said, slipping into his modest living room.
Dont worry, lad, he replied, a hint of guilt in his voice. Ive run out of my blood pressure tablets and didnt think ahead. Could you write me a repeat prescription? My legs ache, and Im not keen on trudging to the surgery.
Lets check your pressure first, I said, pulling out my sphygmomanometer. Its a bit high.
He confessed hed missed his meds for three days. I wrote the script, noting my personal contact number. Dont hesitate to call if anything changes, I reminded him.
Thanks, love. Fancy a cuppa? he offered.
Ill have tea with you another time, Arthur. I must be off now, I replied, gathering my bag. He shuffled out after me, looking a little brighter.
I felt a pang of sympathy for solitary elders; loneliness gnaws at both them and at me. Im breathing more than usual today, I thought, descending the stairs.
Next on the list was Ian Gollick, twentyeight, a newcomer to my route. Id never visited his flat before, but I remembered his address vividly. Whats his story? I wondered.
He had called earlier, reporting a fever, sore throat, and weakness, yet sounded fairly well. A thermometer sat on his coffee table, reading a high temperature. I asked him to retake it; after a gentle shake the reading fell to normal. He claimed hed taken medication already and begged for a sick note, even offering money. I refused, and he launched a tirade, calling me names until I left.
Such encounters stick with you.
The following house belonged to a young, handsome man with reddened eyes, coughing badly. He was clearly ill, though nothing lifethreatening yet. I prescribed the needed meds and jotted a note to issue a sick certificate if required. He reminded me faintly of David, my first love from school. As night fell and street lamps flickered on, I longed for a strong cup of tea, a cosy blanket, and a good programme on the telly. I pushed the comforting thoughts aside; there were still appointments to keep.
Why am I thinking of David now? I mused. Hes nothing like this bloke. Yet memories of first love surface now and then; who doesnt carry a fragment of that youthful passion?
The final call took me to a modern flat on the seventh floor of a new development. The lift hummed silently, its walls still bare, the air smelling faintly of fresh paint. A soft, female voice announced the floor, and the doors slid open. I checked the flat number against my list, pressed the buzzer, and the lock clicked.
A tall, striking young man stood in the hallway. His face was an uncanny match for Davids the same cheekbones, the same stare.
David? I whispered, stunned.
No, his son, he replied, moving aside to let me in.
Whos there? a voice called from a bedroom, sending a chill down my spine.
Doctor, the man shouted, opening the door to a bright, white bathroom.
I washed my hands, trying not to stare at the
