I have been doing voluntary work at a local clinic. A lot of it is spending mornings doing various clerical tasks, but occasionally I find myself working in a place where I overhear conversations between reception staff and patients. I think Harold Pinter must have had such a job once, because conversations in which neither speaker is to the point, and understanding is minimal, are the norm.

Lady at desk: He got a letter.

Person behind desk: Have you got an appointment?

Lady: No, he got a letter.

pbd: A letter from us?

Lady: I can't go to work today.

pbd: Have you got his letter?

Lady: No, he got a letter. I don't know.

pbd: What is your name?

Lady: Maria.

pbd: Maria. Where is the letter? Can I see it?

Maria: I haven't got a letter.

pbd: Are you the patient?

Maria: I just want to go to work.

pbd: Where is the patient?

Maria: What?



Then there are the ones where information seems to be wilfully withheld.:

Patient: (young, male, very cheerful)I think I might have an appointment here.

Person behind desk: For what?

Patient. Dunno.

pbd: Would it be an Xray?

Patient: Could be.

pbd: Have you got a letter?

Patient (Beaming happily): I did have.

pbd: What's your name?

Patient: Wayne

pbd (preparing to consult computer): What's your first name?

Patient: Wayne

And so on. and on and on.

Today, a perfectly normal looking man suddenly started to undress in the waiting room, displaying an impressive range of upper body tattoos. Nobody took any notice, just continued inquiring about his health insurance.