21st century, anyone?

I've just got back from an appointment with my dermatologist. The appointment was in a clinic that's reserved for specialist non-hospital services such as, well, dermatology or physiotherapy and the like. It's also the centre for out-of-hours non-emergency treatment (however that's defined). Presumably some of these cases are of a sicky sort of nature as there was a notice sellotaped to the bin which read "please do not put vomit in this bin". Now I'm all for asking people not to vomit in the bin - it's unhygienic for a start. But asking people not to put vomit in the bin? Eh? Where are they holding it until a bin hoves into view, their pocket? So there we all were, studiously not putting vomit in the bin and doing surreptitious checking-out-the-other-people-in-the-waiting-room. There was a nun doing a crossword (two down, died for our sins. J-something-S-something-something-S. Hmmmm), a very smiley lady of the sort that means you expend all your energy on not catching her eye lest she tell you all about her cats or her daughter or her hysterectomy; and a couple of sturdy moustachioed old ladies in Very Thick Coats. We were joined by a middle-aged couple who sat at the back of the room. My favourite part was watching everybody look sharply up in surprise when the male half of this couple farted very loudly indeed, then quickly look back down at their six-month-old Woman's Own when they realised what that noise had been. My least favourite part was the look of abject horror and the loud remark "Well I don't want to be examined by him" from one of the sturdy old ladies when a black doctor appeared in the doorway and called a patient through. I hope she was examined by him, and I hope she found it very unpleasant indeed, the nasty bigoted old witch.

Makes my blood boil. Oh, and we're having a competition later.