Confused Dot Com.

For no serious reason I decide to visit the doctors. Mothermouse and I drop in to make an appointment. I walk to the receptionist and begin to elucidate my complex reasoning for wishing to make an appointment and before I can move on to establishing my various options re times, doctors etc MM jumps in. “He wants to make an appointment.” “Who’s your doctor?” As I haven’t seen one in at last ten years I haven’t a clue to this most basic of questions. “I er…” MM again, “Doctor Verygood.” We barter. Dr Verygood is three weeks, Dr OK ten days, Dr Workexperienceandparttimeplumber, Thursday. While I consider MM says, "Thursday." By now the receptionist is looking at me a little sideways, I smile. “Last time he came in for his flue jab he just sat there and didn’t tell anybody. This time you must tell someone.” I nod in acceptance of MM’s helpful suggestion. The receptionist appreciates the need for clear instructions. “I’ll write it all down on your card.” I begin to wonder if I’m playing a sufficient part in this conversation. MM nods her appreciation. The receptionist reads the card out slowly with her finger. “Here is your appointment with the nurse at 9.15 and then you’ll wait here and see the doctor after that at 10.20.” MM chirps in again, “And don’t forget to tell the receptionist you’re waiting this time.” The receptionist concludes the conversation. “Perhaps it would be good if someone came with him in case he gets confused.” ‘Him, confused!’ I am not senile yet thank you very much; I’m just married to a woman with a big gob who butts in all the time. To MM’s credit she did explain I used to be an inventor and that this wasn’t an age related thing just my permanent state of  absent-minded confusion. I suspect, as any asylum inmate will attest, whatever I say in future to this receptionist will be a clear sign of dementia.