Tearoom Times

In shops and cafes, I've noticed a conversational pre-occupation with healthcare issues. Where once chatter about holidays, work, pets and children dominated, now in-depth analyses of personal medical concerns seem to have replaced them. Today was no exception...

Four late middle-aged people sat at a table near me. Without preamble, one man launched into a detailed account of his current health status. A bad nose bleed had been diagnosed as marginally high blood pressure and a trip to give blood had been abandoned because initial tests showed him to be anemic. A bad ear infection was resisting treatment and would have to be drained. This would apparently involve three hypodermic needles, considerable pain, and lots of blood loss. On the morning of his visit to the cafe he had cleaned his teeth and one had dropped out.

I had, by this time, managed to finish my cake, and I prepared to leave. He continued with his litany as I made for the door. A terrible account, of course, but most disturbing of all was the behaviour of his three friends. Far from being appalled by the lurid description, they grinned throughout, happily stuffing their faces with teacakes. One lady was so energetic, a spray of hot butter hit her left nostril, to be evacuated microseconds later in the form of a beautiful amber bubble.

One friend was probably his wife, because she compensated for her muteness with wild, supportive gesticulations, head shakes and nods. The situation reminded me of those press briefings where a person in authority is flanked by an excited sign language expert.

On the way out I met an hirsute old man dressed for the beach (it was January) and sporting a rope around his neck with a huge bunch of keys dangling from it. He sat at a table and emptied his pockets of change, counting all of it with the aplomb and dexterity of an experienced bank teller.

How refreshing to see an old-fashioned eccentric, gamely surviving amidst the all enveloping collective neurosis.