2002-10-20 - 11:05 p.m.

So I�m in the hospital waiting room, having just had photographic plates inserted roughly into my oral cavity and bent backwards whilst they jammed a camera into my lower jaw � coincidentally my best side! � to get a look at what they�ll be taking out next week, just to make sure it isn�t something unforeseen, like some absent-mindedly swallowed small change or one of those spider�s eggs that you�re always reading about that people contract through eating a rogue nectarine or going somewhere unnecessarily exotic on holiday. They give you a medieval-looking lead apron to wear, as presumably you�re being zapped with enough radiation to microwave a small jacket potato. I asked if I could get copies, but apparently it�s not like a photo booth - hence they really don�t like it if you strike whacky poses.

The waiting room has a TV, which is thoughtfully set at a volume the sonic waves of which are presumably only detectable by certain types of particularly attentive sea mammal, and for a while we�re watching live action of, er, a hospital so that you feel like you�re in some kind of post-modern, self-referential art installation that either says something cutting about government funding or is about wanting to have sex with the terminally ill. Ascribe your own meaning and have fun with the joke.

The programme changes to one of those talk shows that involves the audience too much, but explains why most of the population don�t have jobs in network television, whilst at the same time impressing you that some people have jobs at all. It�s always some utterly mundane vox pop about issues that couldn�t be less pressing if they were attached to oversized helium balloons. You know the kind: �Do YOU have knees? Do you know anyone that HAS knees? Have your knees made your life so tedious that appearing on TV is your only shot at self-validation? Call us now�.� The subject, displayed in the corner of the screen, is �Noisy Neighbours�, though if there are any in the audience, the TV renders them mercifully inaudible.

Some old boy sidles up to me � late 50s, clad in denim, walking stick, face like a badly poached egg. Sits himself down, and follows it up with the inevitable lean across: �They discussing the war are they?� I tell him that it�s actually the terminally fluffier topic of noisy neighbours. Unfettered by conventions of reason, he presses on: �There�ll be a war by Christmas. Unavoidable.� Make no mistake, this man is here to talk about war. �They�re just killing innocent people and it makes me sick.� I nod in agreement and offer that yes, perhaps something should be done about US foreign policy, but apparently he was referring to �those Islamics�. We�re the only white people in a room of Asians, and he�s obviously tagged me as someone who�d be happy to indulge in some passive racism. One woman is wearing a full burka, which displeases Poached Egg, and he whispers, �If that was my wife and she dressed like that, I wouldn�t let her out of the fucking house�� � effective house arrest apparently in his mind being some kind of deferential liberal alternative to traditional Moslem clothing.

As much as I feel like arguing the toss, it�s clear that asking him to see things from a different perspective would be on a par with asking, say, an aphid to direct a contemporary dance recital, having the reasoning abilities, as he had, of a discarded teabag. Luckily, he wanders off for a fag asking me to �listen for his name�, though when they call it out I keep quiet, and by the time he gets back, my skeletal portfolio has been approved, and I�m out the door, wondering if he suspends his racial hatred when faced with an Asian doctor who could inadvertently do him a favour by being utterly professional and making him well. I'll bet it's not "those Islamics" when he's relying on "them" not (justifiably) fudging his operation.